fcibrarp  of  "the  theological  ^eminar^ 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 


PRESENTED  BY 


The  Estate  of 
Rockwell  S.  Brank 

PR b  48cf 

A  c~ 

I  9  ?.  3 


THE  COMPLETE  POEMS 

OF 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/completepoemsofrOOstev 


THE  COMPLETE  PO 


OF 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 

1923 


Copyright,  1905,  1913,  1922,  1923,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1921,  BY  THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  November,  1923 


C  ONTENTS 


I.  A  CHILD’S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 

PAGE 

i.  Bed  in  Summer .  5 

ii.  A  Thought .  5 

hi.  At  the  Sea-side .  6 

iv.  Young  Night  Thought .  6 

v.  Whole  Duty  of  Children .  7 

vi.  Rain .  7 

VTi.  Pirate  Story .  7 

vin.  Foreign  Lands .  8 

ix.  Windy  Nights  .  9 

x.  Travel . 10 

xi.  Singing . 11 

xn.  Looking  Forward . 12 

xm.  A  Good  Play . 12 

xiv.  Where  Go  the  Boats  ? . 13 

xv.  Auntie’s  Skirts . 13 

xvi.  The  Land  of  Counterpane . 14 

xvii.  The  Land  of  Nod . 14 

xviii.  My  Shadow . 15 

xix.  System . 16 

xx.  A  Good  Boy . 17 

xxi.  Escape  at  Bedtime . 17 

xxn.  Marching  Song . 18 

xxiii.  The  Cow . 19 

xxiv.  Happy  Thought . 19 


VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

xxv.  The  Wind . 19 

xxvi.  Keepsake  Mill . 20 

xxvii.  Good  and  Bad  Children  .......  21 

xxviii.  Foreign  Children . 22 

xxix.  The  Sun’s  Travels . 23 

xxx.  The  Lamplighter . 23 

xxxi.  My  Bed  Is  a  Boat . 24 

xxxn.  The  Moon . 25 

xxxm.  The  Swing . 25 

xxxiv.  Time  to  Rise . 26 

xxxv.  Looking-glass  River . 26 

xxxvi.  Fairy  Bread . 27 

xxxvii.  From  a  Railway  Carriage . 28 

xxxviii.  Winter-time . 28 

xxxix.  The  Hayloft . 29 

xl.  Farewell  to  the  Farm . 30 

xli.  North-west  Passage . 31 

1.  Good  Night . 31 

2.  Shadow  March . 31 

3.  In  Port . 32 

THE  CHILD  ALONE 

1.  The  Unseen  Playmate . 33 

ii.  My  Ship  and  I . 34 

hi.  My  Kingdom . 34 

iv.  Picture-books  in  Winter . 36 

v.  My  Treasures . 37 

vi.  Block  City . 37 

vii.  The  Land  of  Story-books . .  .  38 

viii.  Armies  in  the  Fire . 39 

ix.  The  Little  Land . 40 


CONTENTS 


GARDEN  DAYS 

PAGE 

I.  Night  and  Day . 43 

ii.  Nest  Eggs . 45 

hi.  The  Flowers . 46 

iv.  Summer  Sun . 47 

v.  The  Dumb  Soldier . 48 

vi.  Autumn  Fires . 49 

vii.  The  Gardener . 50 

viii.  Historical  Associations . 51 

ENVOYS 

i.  To  Willie  and  Henrietta . 53 

ii.  To  My  Mother . 54 

hi.  To  Auntie . 54 

iv.  To  Minnie . 54 

v.  To  My  Name-child . 57 

vi.  To  Any  Reader . 58 

II.  UNDERWOODS 

BOOK  I 
In  English 

i.  Envoy . 67 

ii.  A  Song  of  the  Road . 67 

hi.  The  Canoe  Speaks . 68 

iv.  It  is  the  season  now  to  go . 70 

v.  The  House  Beautiful . 71 

vi.  A  Visit  from  the  Sea . 72 

vii.  To  a  Gardener . 73 

viii.  To  Minnie . 74 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ix.  To  K.  de  M . 75 

x.  To  N.  V.  de  G.  S . 76 

xi.  To  Will  H.  Low . 77 

xn.  To  Mrs.  Will  H.  Low . 78 

xiii.  To  H.  F.  Brown . 79 

xiv.  To  Andrew  Lang . 80 

xv.  Et  Tu  In  Arcadia  Vixisti . 81 

xvi.  To  W.  E.  Henley . 84 

xvii.  Henry  Janies . 85 

xvm.  The  Mirror  Speaks . 86 

xix.  Katharine . 87 

xx.  To  F.  J.  S . 87 

xxi.  Requiem . 88 

xxn.  The  Celestial  Surgeon . 88 

xxiii.  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows . 89 

xxiv.  Not  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert  .  91 

xxv.  It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain  ...  93 

xxvi.  The  Sick  Child . 94 

xxvii.  In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S . 95 

xxviii.  To  My  Father . 96 

xxix.  In  the  States . 97 

xxx.  A  Portrait . 98 

xxxi.  Sing  clearlier,  Muse,  or  evermore  be  still  .  .  99 

xxxn.  A  Camp . 99 

xxxm.  The  Country  of  the  Camisards . 99 

xxxiv.  Skerry  vore . 100 

xxxv.  Skerry  vore:  the  Parallel . 100 

xxxvi.  My  house ,  I  say.  But  hark  to  the  sunny  doves  101 
xxxvn.  My  body  which  my  dungeon  is  .  .  .  .  .  101 

xxxviii.  Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined  .  .  .  102 

xxxix.  Dedicatory  Poem . 103 


CONTENTS 


ix 

BOOK  II 

In  Scots 

PAGE 

I.  The  Maker  to  Posterity . 109 

n.  Ille  Terrarum . Ill 

hi.  When  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come . 114 

iv.  A  Mile  an’  a  Bittock . 115 

v.  A  Lowden  Sabbath  Morn . 116 

vi.  The  Spaewife . 122 

vii.  The  Blast — 1875  123 

viii.  The  Counterblast — 1886  124 

ix.  The  Counterblast  Ironical . 127 

x.  Their  Laureate  to  an  Academy  Class  Dinner  Club  .  128 

xi.  Embro  Hie  Kirk . 131 

xii.  The  Scotsman’s  Return  from  Abroad  ....  133 

xiii.  Late  in  the  nicht  in  bed  I  lay . 137 

xiv.  My  Conscience ! . 140 

xv.  To  Doctor  John  Brown . 142 

xvi.  It’s  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an’  youth  .  .  .  145 

III.  SONGS  OF  TRAVEL  AND 
OTHER  VERSES 

I.  The  Vagabond . 149 

ii.  Youth  and  Love — I . 150 

hi.  Youth  and  Love — II . 151 

iv.  The  Unforgotten — I . 151 

v.  The  Unforgotten — II . 152 

vi.  The  infinite  shining  heavens . 153 

vii.  Plain  as  the  glistering  planets  shine . 153 

viii.  To  you,  let  snow  and  roses . 154 


X 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ix.  Let  Beauty  awake  in  the  morn  from  beautiful 

dreams . 155 

x.  I  know  not  how  it  is  with  you . 155 

xi.  I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight  156 

xii.  We  Have  Loved  of  Yore . 156 

xiii.  Ditty . 158 

xiv.  Mater  Triumphans . 158 

xv.  Bright  is  the  ring  of  words . 159 

xvi.  In  the  highlands,  in  the  country  places  .  .  .  160 

xvn.  Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I 

wander . 161 

xviii.  To  Dr.  Hake . 162 

xix.  To . . 162 

xx.  The  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear  .  .  .  164 

xxi.  I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slope  164 

xxii.  He  hears  with  gladdened  heart  the  thunder  .  164 

xxiii.  The  Lost  Occasion . 165 

xxiv.  If  This  Were  Faith  . 165 

xxv.  My  Wife  . 167 

xxvi.  Winter . ' . 168 

xxvii.  The  stormy  evening  closes  now  in  vain  .  .  .  168 

xxviii.  To  an  Island  Princess . 169 

xxix.  To  Kalakaua . 171 

xxx.  To  Princess  Kaiulani . 171 

xxxi.  To  Mother  Maryanne . 172 

xxxii.  In  Memoriam,  E.  H . 173 

xxxm.  To  My  Wife . 173 

xxxiv.  To  the  Muse . 175 

xxxv.  To  My  Old  Familiars . .  .  176 

xxxvi.  The  tropics  vanish,  and  meseems  that  I  177 

xxxvii.  To  S.  C . 178 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

xxxvin.  The  House  of  Tembinoka . 180 

xxxix.  The  Woodman . 184 

xl.  Tropic  Rain . 189 

xli.  An  End  of  Travel . 190 

xlii.  We  uncommiserate  pass  into  the  night  .  .  .  191 

xliii.  The  Last  Sight . 191 

xliv.  Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone  .  .  .  .192 

xlv.  To  S.  R.  Crockett . 193 

xlvi.  Evensong . 193 


IV.  BALLADS 

THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO:  A  LEGEND  OF  TAHITI 


dedication:  to  ori  a  ori 

i.  The  Slaying  of  Tamatea . 199 

ii.  The  Venging  of  Tamatea . 209 

hi.  Rahero . 222 

THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE:  MARQUESAN  MANNERS 

i.  The  Priest’s  Vigil . 235 

ii.  The  Lovers  . 239 

hi.  The  Feast . 244 

iv.  The  Raid . 251 


TICONDEROGA:  A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WEST 

HIGHLANDS 


I.  The  Saying  of  the  Name . 259 

II.  The  Seeking  of  the  Name  . 264 

in.  The  Place  of  the  Name . 267 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


HEATHER  ALE:  A  GALLOWAY  LEGEND 

PAGE 

Heather  Ale:  A  Galloway  Legend . 273 

CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 

Christmas  at  Sea . 279 

Notes  to  the  Song  of  Rahero . 282 

Notes  to  the  Feast  of  Famine . 285 

Notes  to  Ticonderoga . 286 

Note  to  Heather  Ale . 287 

V.  NEW  POEMS 

i.  Summer  Night . 291 

n.  I  sit  up  here  at  midnight  . 291 

hi.  Lo  !  in  thine  honest  eyes  I  read . 292 

iv.  Though  deep  indifference  should  drowse  .  .  .  293 

v.  My  heart,  when  first  the  blackbird  sings  .  .  .  293 

vi.  I  dreamed  of  forest  alleys  fair . 294 

vn.  Verses  Written  in  1872  296 

viii.  To  H.  C.  Bunner  . 298 

ix.  From  Wishing-land . 298 

x.  The  Well-head  . 300 

xi.  The  Mill-house . 301 

xii.  St.  Martin’s  Summer . 305 

xiii.  All  influences  were  in  vain . 305 

xiv.  The  old  world  moans  and  topes  . 308 

xv.  I  am  like  one  that  has  sat  alone  . 309 

xvi.  The  whole  day  thro’,  in  contempt  and  pity  .  .  309 

xvii.  The  old  Chimseras,  old  receipts . 310 

xviii.  Dedication  . 311 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

xix.  Prelude . 312 

xx.  The  Vanquished  Knight . 313 

xxi.  Auld  Reekie . 313 

xxn.  Athole  Brose . 314 

xxiii.  Over  the  Water  wi’  Chairlie . 314 

xxiv.  To  the  Commissioners  of  Northern  Lights  .  .  317 

xxv.  After  reading  “Antony  and  Cleopatra”  .  .  318 

xxvi.  The  relic  taken,  what  avails  the  shrine  ?  .  .  318 

xxvii.  About  the  sheltered  garden  ground  .  .  .  .  319 

xxviii.  I  know  not  how,  but  as  I  count . 320 

xxix.  Take  not  my  hand  as  mine  alone  ....  320 

xxx.  The  angler  rose,  he  took  his  rod . 321 

xxxi.  Spring-Song . 321 

xxxii.  Thou  strainest  through  the  mountain  fern  .  .  321 

xxxiii.  The  summer  sun  shone  round  me  ....  322 

xxxiv.  You  looked  so  tempting  in  the  pew  .  .  .  .323 

xxxv.  Love’s  Vicissitudes . 323 

xxxvi.  The  moon  is  sinking — the  tempestuous  weather  324 

xxxvii.  Death . 324 

xxxviii.  Duddingstone . 326 

xxxix.  Stout  marches  lead  to  certain  ends  ....  327 

xl.  Away  with  funeral  music . 327 

xli.  To  Sydney . 328 

xlii.  Had  I  the  power  that  have  the  will  ....  330 

xliii.  O,  dull  cold  northern  sky . 331 

xliv.  Apologetic  postscript  of  a  year  later  ....  332 

xlv.  To  Marcus . 333 

xlvi.  To  Ottilie . 334 

xlvii.  This  gloomy,  northern  day . 335 

xlviii.  To  a  Youth . 336 

xlix.  John  Cavalier . 338 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

l.  Praise  and  Prayer . 339 

Li.  Hopes . 340 

ill.  I  have  a  friend:  I  have  a  story . 341 

mi.  Link  your  arm  in  mine,  my  lad . 341 

liv.  The  wind  is  without  there  and  howls  in  the 

trees . 343 

lv.  A  Valentine’s  Song  . 344 

lvi.  Hail !  Childish  slaves  of  social  rules  .  .  .  346 

lvii.  Swallows  travel  to  and  fro . 348 

lviii.  To  Mesdames  Zassetsky  and  Garschine  .  .  .  349 

lix.  To  Madame  Garschine . 351 

lx.  Music  at  the  Villa  Marina . 351 

lxi.  Fear  not,  dear  friend,  but  freely  live  your  days  352 

lxii.  Let  love  go,  if  go  she  will . 353 

lxiii.  I  do  not  fear  to  own  me  kin . 354 

lxiv.  I  am  like  one  that  for  long  days  had  sate  .  .  355 

lxv.  Sit  doon  by  me,  my  canty  freend  ....  356 

lx vi.  Here  he  comes,  big  with  statistics  ....  357 

lxvii.  Voluntary . 357 

lxviii.  0  now,  although  the  year  be  done  ....  358 

lxix.  Ad  Se  Ipsum . 359 

lxx.  In  the  green  and  gallant  spring . 359 

lxxi.  Death,  to  the  dead  forevermore . 359 

lxxii.  To  Charles  Baxter . 360 

lxxiii.  The  look  of  death  is  both  severe  and  mild  .  .  363 

lxxiv.  Her  name  is  as  a  word  of  old  romance  .  .  .  364 

lxxv.  In  autumn  when  the  woods  are  red  .  .  .  .365 

lxx  vi.  Light  as  my  heart  was  long  ago . 365 

lxx vii.  Gather  ye  roses  while  ye  may . 366 

lxx vm.  Poem  for  a  Class  lie-union . 366 

lxxix.  I  saw  red  evening  through  the  rain  ....  368 


CONTENTS 


xv 


LXXX. 

LXXXI. 

lxxxii. 

LXXXIII. 
LXXXI  V. 
LXXXV. 
LXXX  VI. 
LXXX  VII. 
LXXX  VIII. 
LXXXIX. 
XC. 
XCI. 
XCII. 
XCIII. 
XCIV. 

xcv. 

XCVI. 

XCVII. 

XCVIII. 

XCIX. 

c. 

Cl. 

CII. 

CHI. 

CIV. 

CV. 

CVI. 

CVII. 

CVIII. 

CIX. 

ex. 


Last  night  we  had  a  thunderstorm  in  style 

0  lady  fair  and  sweet . 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove 

Rondels . 

Eh,  man  Henley,  you’re  a  don  . 

All  night  through,  raves  or  broods  . 

The  rain  is  over  and  done . 

There  where  the  land  of  love  .... 
Love  is  the  very  heart  of  spring 
On  His  Pitiable  Transformation 
I,  who  all  the  winter  through  .... 

Love — what  is  love  ? . 

Soon  our  friends  perish . 

As  one  who  having  wandered  all  night  long 
Strange  are  the  ways  of  men  .... 
The  wind  blew  shrill  and  smart  .... 

Man  sails  the  deep  a  while . 

The  cock’s  clear  voice  into  the  clearer  air  . 
Now  when  the  number  of  my  years 
What  man  may  learn,  what  man  may  do  . 
The  Susquehanna  and  the  Delaware 
If  I  could  arise  and  travel  away 

Good  old  ale,  mild  or  pale . 

Nay,  but  I  fancy  somehow,  year  by  year  . 
My  wife  and  I,  in  one  romantic  cot 
At  morning  on  the  garden  seat  .... 
Small  is  the  trust  when  love  is  green 
Know  you  the  river  near  to  Grez 
It’s  forth  across  the  roaring  foam  . 

Dedication . 

Farewell . 


PAGE 

369 

369 

370 

371 
373 

373 

374 
374 
37  5 
376 

376 

377 

377 

378 

379 

380 

381 

382 

383 

384 

384 

385 

386 

386 

387 

387 

388 

389 

390 

391 
391 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

cxi.  The  Fine  Pacific  Islands . 392 

cxii.  Topical  Song . 393 

cxiii.  Student  Song . 395 

cxiv.  An  English  Breeze . 396 

cxv.  To  Miss  Cornish . 397 

cxvi.  To  Rosabelle . 398 

cxvn.  As  in  their  flight  the  birds  of  song  ....  399 

cxvm.  Prayer . 400 

cxix.  The  Piper . 401 

cxx.  Epistle  to  Albert  Dew-Smith . 402 

cxxi.  Of  schooners,  islands,  and  maroons  .  .  .  405 

cxxn.  To  Mrs.  Macmarland . 406 

cxxiii.  Yes,  I  remember,  and  still  remember  wailing  .  407 

cxxiv.  Tales  of  Arabia . 408 

cxxv.  Behold,  as  goblins  dark  of  mien  ....  409 

cxxvi.  Still  I  love  to  rhyme,  and  still  more,  rhyming, 

to  wander . 410 

cxxvii.  Long  time  I  lay  in  little  ease . 411 

cxxvm.  Flower  God,  God  of  the  spring,  beautiful, 

bountiful . 412 

cxxix.  Come,  my  beloved,  hear  from  me  ....  413 

cxxx.  Since  years  ago  forevermore . 414 

cxxxi.  For  Richmond’s  Garden  Wall . 414 

cxxxn.  Here  Lies  Erotion . 415 

cxxxiii.  To  Priapus . 415 

cxxxiv.  Aye  mon,  it’s  true;  I’m  no’  that  weel  .  .  .  416 

cxxxv.  Hail,  guest,  and  enter  freely ! . 416 

cxxxvi.  Lo,  now,  my  guest,  if  aught  amiss  were  said  .  416 

cxxxvn.  So  live,  so  love,  so  use  that  fragile  hour  .  .  417 

cxxxviii.  Before  this  little  gift  was  come  .  .  .  .  .  417 

cxxxix.  Go,  little  book — the  ancient  phrase  .  .  .  417 


CONTENTS  xvii 

PAGE 

4 

cxl.  My  love  was  warm :  for  that  I  crossed  .  .  .  419 

cxli.  Come,  my  little  children,  here  are  songs  for  you  419 

cxlii.  Home  from  the  daisied  meadows,  where  you 

linger  yet . 419 

cxliii.  Early  in  the  morning  I  hear  on  your  piano .  .  420 

cxliv.  Fair  isle  at  sea — thy  lovely  name  ....  420 

cxlv.  Loud  and  low  in  the  chimney . 420 

cxlvi.  I  love  to  be  warm  by  the  red  fireside  .  .  .  421 

cxl vn.  Mine  eyes  were  swift  to  know  thee  ....  422 

cxlviii.  Fixed  is  the  doom:  and  to  the  last  of  years  .  .  422 

cxlix.  Men  are  heaven’s  piers,  they  evermore  .  .  .  423 

cl.  Spring  Carol . 424 

cli.  To  what  shall  I  compare  her . 425 

clii.  When  the  sun  comes  after  rain . 426 

cliii.  Late,  O  miller . 426 

cliv.  To  friends  at  home,  the  lone,  the  admired,  the 

lost . 427 

clv.  I,  whom  xipollo  sometimes  visited  ....  427 

clvi.  The  Far-farers . 427 

clvii.  Far  over  seas  an  island  is . 428 

clviii.  On  the  gorgeous  hills  of  morning  ....  429 

clix.  Rivers  and  winds  among  the  twisted  hills  .  .  429 

clx.  Tempest  tossed  and  sore  afflicted  ....  430 

clxi.  I,  now,  O  friend,  whom  noiselessly  the  snows  .  431 

clxii.  Since  thou  hast  given  me  this  good  hope,  O  God  433 

clxiii.  God  gave  to  me  a  child  in  part . 434 

clxiv.  Over  the  land  is  April . 435 

clxv.  Light  as  a  linnet  on  my  way  I  start  ....  435 

clxvi.  Come,  here  is  adieu  to  the  city . 436 

It  blows  a  snowing  gale  in  the  winter  of  the 
year . 436 


CLXVII. 


xviii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 


clxviii.  Ne  Sit  Ancillae  Tibi  Amor  Pudori  .  .  .  437 

clxix.  To  all  that  love  the  far  and  blue  ....  438 

clxx.  Now  bare  to  the  beholder’s  eye  ....  439 

clxxi.  The  Bour-Tree  Den . 440 

clxxii.  Sonnets . 443 

clxxiii.  The  Family . .  450 

clxxiv.  Air  of  Diabelli’s . 459 

clxxv.  De  Erotio  Puella . 463 

clxx vi.  I  look  across  the  ocean . 464 

clxx vii.  I  am  a  hunchback,  yellow  faced  ....  464 

clxx  vm.  Song . 465 

clxxix.  The  New  House . 465 

clxxx.  Men  marvel  at  the  works  of  man  ....  466 

clxxxi.  To  Master  Andrew  Lang . 467 

clxxxii.  To  the  Stormy  Petrel . 468 

clxxxiii.  The  indefensible  impulse  of  my  blood  .  .  468 

clxxxiv.  Who  would  think,  herein  to  look  ....  469 

clxxx v.  Epistle  to  Charles  Baxter . 470 

clxxx  vi.  Ad  Martialem . 472 

clxxxvii.  De  M.  Antonio . 473 

clxxxviii.  Not  roses  to  the  rose,  I  trow . 473 

clxxxix.  To  a  Little  Girl . 474 

cxc.  To  Miss  Rawlinson . 474 

cxci.  The  pleasant  river  gushes . 475 

cxcu.  To  H.  F.  Brown . 476 

cxcm.  To  W.  E.  Henley . 477 

cxciv.  O,  Henley,  in  my  hours  of  ease  ....  478 

cxcv.  All  things  on  earth  and  sea . 479 

cxcvi.  On  Some  Ghostly  Companions  at  a  Spa  .  .  479 

cxcvn.  To  Charles  Baxter . .  .  480 

cxcviii.  To  Henry  James . 483 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

cxcix.  Here  you  rest  among  the  valleys,  maiden  known 

to  but  a  few . 484 

cc.  And  thorns,  but  did  the  sculptor  spare  .  .  .485 

cci.  My  brain  swims,  empty  and  light  ....  485 

ecu.  The  Light-Keeper . 486 

ccm.  The  Daughter  of  Herodias . 489 

cciv.  The  Cruel  Mistress . 491 

ccv.  Storm . . . 492 

ccvi.  Stormy  Nights . 494 

ccvn.  Song  at  Dawn . 497 

ccvni.  Sole  scholar  of  your  college  I  appear  .  .  .  498 

ccix.  Dark  Women . 499 

ccx.  A  Valentine . 501 

ccxi.  To  a  Midshipman . 502 

ccxn.  The  faces  and  forms  of  yore . 503 

ccxm.  The  Consecration  of  Braille . 504 

ccxiv.  Burlesque  Sonnet . 504 

ccxv.  To  Teuila . 505 

ccxvi.  To  Ko  Ung . 507 

ccxvn.  To  Ko  Ung,  the  Goddess . 507 

ccxvm.  In  Lupum . 507 

ccxix.  In  Charidemum . 508 

ccxx.  Ad  Nepotem . 509 

ccxxi.  Epitaphium  Erotii . 510 

ccxxn.  Ad  Quintilianum . 510 

ccxxiii.  De  Hortis  Julii  Martialis . 510 

ccxxiv.  In  Maximum . 512 

ccxxv.  Ad  Olum . 512 

ccxxvi.  De  Ccenatione  Micse . 513 

ccxxvn.  Ad  Piscatorem . 513 


I 

A  CHILD’S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 


TO 


ALISON  CUNNINGHAM 

FROM  HER  BOY 

For  the  long  nights  you  lay  awake 
And  watched  for  my  unworthy  sake : 

For  your  most  comfortable  hand 
That  led  me  through  the  uneven  land: 

For  all  the  story-books  you  read: 

For  all  the  pains  you  comforted: 

For  all  you  pitied ,  all  you  bore , 

In  sad  and  happy  days  of  yore : — 

My  second  Mother ,  my  first  Wife , 

The  angel  of  my  infant  life — 

From  the  sick  child ,  now  well  and  old , 
Take,  nurse ,  the  little  book  you  hold  / 

And  grant  it.  Heaven,  that  all  who  read 
May  find  as  dear  a  nurse  at  need. 

And  every  child  who  lists  my  rhyme. 

In  the  bright,  fireside,  nursery  clime, 

May  hear  it  in  as  kind  a  voice 
As  made  my  childish  days  rejoice  / 

R.  L .  S. 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 


i 

BED  IN  SUMMER 

IN  winter  I  get  up  at  night 

And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light. 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 
Or  hear  the  grown-up  people’s  feet 
Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play. 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day? 


II 

A  THOUGHT 

IT  is  very  nice  to  think 

The  world  is  full  of  meat  and  drink, 
With  little  children  saying  grace 
In  every  Christian  kind  of  place. 


6 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


III 

AT  THE  SEA-SIDE 


WHEN  I  was  down  beside  the  sea, 
A  wooden  spade  they  gave  to  me 
To  dig  the  sandy  shore. 


My  holes  were  empty  like  a  cup, 
In  every  hole  the  sea  came  up, 
Till  it  could  come  no  more. 


IV 

YOUNG  NIGHT  THOUGHT 


ALL  night  long,  and  every  night, 

When  my  mamma  puts  out  the  light, 
I  see  the  people  marching  by, 

As  plain  as  day,  before  my  eye. 


Armies  and  emperors  and  kings, 

All  carrying  different  kinds  of  things, 
And  marching  in  so  grand  a  way, 
You  never  saw  the  like  by  day. 


So  fine  a  show  was  never  seen, 

At  the  great  circus  on  the  green; 
For  every  kind  of  beast  and  man 
Is  marching  in  that  caravan. 


OF  VERSES 


7 


At  first  they  move  a  little  slow. 
But  still  the  faster  on  they  go, 
And  still  beside  them  close  I  keep 
Until  we  reach  the  town  of  Sleep. 


WHOLE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 


A  CHILD  should  always  say  what’s  true. 
And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to, 

And  behave  mannerly  at  table; 

At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able. 


VI 

RAIN 


THE  rain  is  raining  all  around, 
It  falls  on  field  and  tree, 

It  rains  on  the  umbrellas  here, 
And  on  the  ships  at  sea. 


VII 


PIRATE  STORY 


THREE  of  us  afloat  in  the  meadow  by  the  swing, 
Three  of  us  aboard  in  the  basket  on  the  lea. 
Winds  are  in  the  air,  they  are  blowing  in  the  spring. 

And  waves  are  on  the  meadow  like  the  waves  there  are 
at  sea. 


8  A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 

Where  shall  we  adventure,  to-day  that  we’re  afloat. 
Wary  of  the  weather  and  steering  by  a  star  ? 

Shall  it  be  to  Africa,  a-steering  of  the  boat. 

To  Providence,  or  Babylon,  or  off  to  Malabar? 

Hi !  but  here’s  a  squadron  a-rowing  on  the  sea — 

Cattle  on  the  meadow  a-charging  with  a  roar ! 

Quick,  and  we’ll  escape  them,  they’re  as  mad  as  they 
can  be, 

The  wicket  is  the  harbour  and  the  garden  is  the  shore. 


VIII 


FOREIGN  LANDS 


UP  into  the  cherry-tree 

Who  should  climb  but  little  me  ? 
I  held  the  trunk  with  both  my  hands 
And  looked  abroad  on  foreign  lands. 


I  saw  the  next-door  garden  lie. 
Adorned  with  flowers,  before  my  eye. 
And  many  pleasant  places  more 
That  I  had  never  seen  before. 


I  saw  the  dimpling  river  pass 
And  be  the  sky’s  blue  looking-glass; 
The  dusty  roads  go  up  and  down 
With  people  tramping  in  to  town. 


OF  VERSES 


9 


If  I  could  find  a  higher  tree, 
Farther  and  farther  I  should  see, 
To  where  the  grown-up  river  slips 
Into  the  sea  among  the  ships, 

To  where  the  roads  on  either  hand 
Lead  onward  into  fairy  land. 
Where  all  the  children  dine  at  five 
And  all  the  playthings  come  alive. 


IX 


WINDY  NIGHTS 


WHENEVER  the  moon  and  stars  are  set, 
Whenever  the  wind  is  high, 

All  night  long  in  the  dark  and  wet, 

A  man  goes  riding  by. 

Late  in  the  night  when  the  fires  are  out, 

Why  does  he  gallop  and  gallop  about? 


Whenever  the  trees  are  crying  aloud, 
And  ships  are  tossed  at  sea, 

By,  on  the  highway,  low  and  loud. 

By  at  the  gallop  goes  he. 

By  at  the  gallop  he  goes,  and  then 
By  he  comes  back  at  the  gallop  again. 


10 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


X 

TRAVEL 

I  SHOULD  like  to  rise  and  go 
Where  the  golden  apples  grow; — 
Where  below  another  sky 
Parrot  islands  anchored  lie, 

And,  watched  by  cockatoos  and  goats, 
Lonely  Crusoes  building  boats; — 

Where  in  sunshine  reaching  out 
Eastern  cities,  miles  about, 

Are  with  mosque  and  minaret 
Among  sandy  gardens  set, 

And  the  rich  goods  from  near  and  far 
Hang  for  sale  in  the  bazaar; — 

Where  the  Great  Wall  round  China  goes. 
And  on  one  side  the  desert  blows, 

And  with  bell  and  voice  and  drum, 

Cities  on  the  other  hum; — 

Where  are  forests,  hot  as  fire, 

Wide  as  England,  tall  as  a  spire, 

Full  of  apes  and  cocoa-nuts 
And  the  negro  hunters’  huts; — 

Where  the  knotty  crocodile 
Lies  and  blinks  in  the  Nile, 

And  the  red  flamingo  flies 
Hunting  fish  before  his  eyes; — 

Where  in  jungles,  near  and  far, 
Man-devouring  tigers  are, 

Lying  close  and  giving  ear 
Lest  the  hunt  be  drawing  near, 


OF  VERSES 


11 


Or  a  comer-by  be  seen 
Swinging  in  a  palanquin; — 

Where  among  the  desert  sands 
Some  deserted  city  stands, 

All  its  children,  sweep  and  prince, 
Grown  to  manhood  ages  since. 
Not  a  foot  in  street  or  house, 

Not  a  stir  of  child  or  mouse. 

And  when  kindly  falls  the  night, 
In  all  the  town  no  spark  of  light. 
There  I’ll  come  when  I’m  a  man 
With  a  camel  caravan; 

Light  a  fire  in  the  gloom 
Of  some  dusty  dining-room; 

See  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 
Heroes,  fights,  and  festivals; 

And  in  a  corner  find  the  toys 
Of  the  old  Egyptian  boys. 


XI 


SINGING 


F  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings 


And  nests  among  the  trees; 
The  sailor  sings  of  ropes  and  things 
In  ships  upon  the  seas. 

The  children  sing  in  far  Japan, 

The  children  sing  in  Spain; 

The  organ  with  the  organ  man 
Is  singing  in  the  rain. 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


XII 


LOOKING  FORWARD 


WHEN  I  am  grown  to  man’s  estate 
I  shall  be  very  proud  and  great. 
And  tell  the  other  girls  and  boys 
Not  to  meddle  with  my  toys. 


XIII 

A  GOOD  PLAY 


WE  built  a  ship  upon  the  stairs 

All  made  of  the  back-bedroom  chairs5 
And  filled  it  full  of  sofa  pillows 
To  go  a-sailing  on  the  billows. 


We  took  a  saw  and  several  nails, 
And  water  in  the  nursery  pails; 

And  Tom  said,  “Let  us  also  take 
An  apple  and  a  slice  of  cake;” — 
Which  was  enough  for  Tom  and  me 
To  go  a-sailing  on,  till  tea. 

We  sailed  along  for  days  and  days. 
And  had  the  very  best  of  plays; 

But  Tom  fell  out  and  hurt  his  knee, 
So  there  was  no  one  left  but  me. 


OF  VERSES 


13 


XIV 

WHERE  GO  THE  BOATS? 


DARK  brown  is  the  river. 
Golden  is  the  sand. 

It  flows  along  for  ever, 

With  trees  on  either  hand. 


Green  leaves  a-floating, 

Castles  of  the  foam, 

Boats  of  mine  a-boating — 
Where  will  all  come  home  ? 

On  goes  the  river 

And  out  past  the  mill, 

Away  down  the  valley, 

Away  down  the  hill. 

Away  down  the  river, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more, 
Other  little  children 

Shall  bring  my  boats  ashore. 


XV 

AUNTIE’S  SKIRTS 


WHENEVER  Auntie  moves  around, 
Her  dresses  make  a  curious  sound; 
They  trail  behind  her  up  the  floor, 

And  trundle  after  through  the  door. 


14 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


XVI 

THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 

WHEN  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed, 

I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head. 

And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 
To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day. 

And  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 

With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 

Among  the  bed-clothes,  through  the  hills; 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 
All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets; 

Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 

And  planted  cities  all  about. 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still 
That  sits  upon  the  pillow-hill, 

And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 

The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane. 


XVII 

THE  LAND  OF  NOD 


FROM  breakfast  on  through  all  the  day 
At  home  among  my  friends  I  stay; 
But  every  night  I  go  abroad 
Afar  into  the  land  of  Nod. 


OF  VERSES 


15 


All  by  myself  I  have  to  go. 

With  none  to  tell  me  what  to  do — 

All  alone  beside  the  streams 

And  up  the  mountain-sides  of  dreams. 

The  strangest  things  are  there  for  me, 
Both  things  to  eat  and  things  to  see, 
And  many  frightened  sights  abroad 
Till  morning  in  the  land  of  Nod. 

Try  as  I  like  to  find  the  way, 

I  never  can  get  back  by  day, 

Nor  can  remember  plain  and  clear 
The  curious  music  that  I  hear. 


XVIII 

MY  SHADOW 

I  HAVE  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more  than  I  can 
see. 

He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up  to  the  head; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me,  when  I  jump  into  my  bed. 

The  funniest  thing  about  him  is  the  way  he  likes  to 
grow — 

Not  at  all  like  proper  children,  which  is  always  very  slow; 
For  he  sometimes  shoots  up  taller  like  an  india-rubber 
ball. 

And  he  sometimes  gets  so  little  that  there’s  none  of  him 
at  all. 


16 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


He  hasn’t  got  a  notion  of  how  children  ought  to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every  sort  of  way. 
He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he’s  a  coward  you  can  see; 
I’d  think  shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that  shadow  sticks 
to  me ! 

One  morning,  very  early,  before  the  sun  was  up, 

I  rose  and  found  the  shining  dew  on  every  buttercup; 
But  my  lazy  little  shadow,  like  an  arrant  sleepy-head, 
Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was  fast  asleep  in 
bed. 


XIX 


SYSTEM 


EVERY  night  my  prayers  I  say, 
And  get  my  dinner  every  day; 
And  every  day  that  I’ve  been  good, 
I  get  an  orange  after  food. 


The  child  that  is  not  clean  and  neat, 
With  lots  of  toys  and  things  to  eat, 
He  is  a  naughty  child,  I’m  sure — 

Or  else  his  dear  papa  is  poor. 


OF  VERSES 

xx 

A  GOOD  BOY 


17 


I  WOKE  before  the  morning,  I  was  happy  all  the  day, 
I  never  said  an  ugly  word,  but  smiled  and  stuck  to 
play. 

And  now  at  last  tne  sun  is  going  down  behind  the  wood, 
And  I  am  very  happy,  for  I  know  that  I’ve  been  good. 

My  bed  is  waiting  cool  and  fresh,  with  linen  smooth  and 
fair, 

And  I  must  off  to  sleepsin-by,  and  not  forget  my  prayer. 

I  know  that,  till  to-morrow  I  shall  see  the  sun  arise. 

No  ugly  dream  shall  fright  my  mind,  no  ugly  sight  my 
eyes. 

But  slumber  hold  me  tightly  till  I  waken  in  the  dawn, 
And  hear  the  thrushes  singing  in  the  lilacs  round  the 
lawn. 

XXI 

ESCAPE  AT  BEDTIME 

THE  lights  from  the  parlour  and  kitchen  shone  out 
Through  the  blinds  and  the  windows  and  bars; 
And  high  overhead  and  all  moving  about, 

There  were  thousands  of  millions  of  stars. 

There  ne’er  were  such  thousands  of  leaves  on  a  tree, 
Nor  of  people  in  church  or  the  Park. 

As  the  crowds  of  the  stars  that  looked  down  upon  me, 
And  that  glittered  and  winked  in  the  dark. 


18 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


The  Dog,  and  the  Plough,  and  the  Hunter,  and  all, 
And  the  star  of  the  sailor,  and  Mars, 

These  shone  in  the  sky,  and  the  pail  by  the  wall 
Would  be  half  full  of  water  and  stars. 

They  saw  me  at  last,  and  they  chased  me  with  cries, 
And  they  soon  had  me  packed  into  bed; 

But  the  glory  kept  shining  and  bright  in  my  eyes, 
And  the  stars  going  round  in  my  head. 


XXII 


MARCHING  SONG 


RING  the  comb  and  play  upon  it ! 
Marching,  here  we  come ! 

Willie  cocks  his  Highland  bonnet, 
Johnnie  beats  the  drum. 


Mary  Jane  commands  the  party, 
Peter  leads  the  rear; 

Feet  in  time,  alert  and  hearty, 
Each  a  Grenadier ! 


All  in  the  most  martial  manner 
Marching  double-quick; 

While  the  napkin  like  a  banner 
Waves  upon  the  stick ! 

Here’s  enough  of  fame  and  pillage, 
Great  commander  Jane ! 

Now  that  we’ve  been  round  the  village, 
Let’s  go  home  again. 


OF  VERSES 

XXIII 

THE  COW 


19 


THE  friendly  cow,  all  red  and  white, 
I  love  with  all  my  heart: 

She  gives  me  cream  with  all  her  might, 
To  eat  with  apple-tart. 


She  wanders  lowing  here  and  there, 
And  yet  she  cannot  stray, 

All  in  the  pleasant  open  air, 

The  pleasant  light  of  day; 

And  blown  by  all  the  winds  that  pass, 
And  wet  with  all  the  showers, 

She  walks  among  the  meadow  grass 
And  eats  the  meadow  flowers. 


XXIV 


HAPPY  THOUGHT 


THE  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I’m  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings 


XXV 

THE  WIND 

I  SAW  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky; 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass, 

Like  ladies’  skirts  across  the  grass — 

O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song ! 


20 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


I  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 

But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 

I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 

I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all — 

O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song ! 


O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 

O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old? 

Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree, 

Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  me? 

O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song ! 


XXVI 

KEEPSAKE  MILL 

OVER  the  borders,  a  sin  without  pardon. 

Breaking  the  branches  and  crawling  below, 
Out  through  the  breach  in  the  wall  of  the  garden, 
Down  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  we  go. 

Here  is  the  mill  with  the  humming  of  thunder. 
Here  is  the  weir  with  the  wonder  of  foam, 

Here  is  the  sluice  with  the  race  running  under — 
Marvellous  places,  though  handy  to  home ! 

Sounds  of  the  village  grow  stiller  and  stiller, 

Stiller  the  note  of  the  birds  on  the  hill; 

Dusty  and  dim  are  the  eyes  of  the  miller, 

Deaf  are  his  ears  with  the  moil  of  the  mill. 


OF  VERSES 


21 


Years  may  go  by,  and  the  wheel  in  the  river 
Wheel  as  it  wheels  for  us,  children,  to-day, 

Wheel  and  keep  roaring  and  foaming  for  ever 
Long  after  all  of  the  boys  are  away. 

Home  from  the  Indies,  and  home  from  the  ocean, 
Heroes  and  soldiers  we  all  shall  come  home; 

Still  we  shall  find  the  old  mill-wheel  in  motion, 
Turning  and  churning  that  river  to  foam. 

You  with  the  bean  that  I  gave  when  we  quarrelled, 
I  with  your  marble  of  Saturday  last, 

Honoured  and  old  and  all  gaily  apparelled, 

Here  we  shall  meet  and  remember  the  past. 

XXVII 

GOOD  AND  BAD  CHILDREN 

CHILDREN,  you  are  very  little. 

And  your  bones  are  very  brittle; 

If  you  would  grow  great  and  stately. 

You  must  try  to  walk  sedately. 

You  must  still  be  bright  and  quiet, 

And  content  with  simple  diet; 

And  remain,  through  all  bewild’ring, 
Innocent  and  honest  children. 

Happy  hearts  and  happy  faces, 

Happy  play  in  grassy  places — 

That  was  how,  in  ancient  ages, 

Children  grew  to  kings  and  sages. 


22 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


But  the  unkind  and  the  unruly, 
And  the  sort  who  eat  unduly, 

They  must  never  hope  for  glory — 
Theirs  is  quite  a  different  story ! 

Cruel  children,  crying  babies, 

All  grow  up  as  geese  and  gabies, 
Hated,  as  their  age  increases, 

By  their  nephews  and  their  nieces. 


XXVIII 

FOREIGN  CHILDREN 

IITTLE  Indian,  Sioux  or  Crow, 
Little  frosty  Eskimo, 

Little  Turk  or  Japanee, 

O !  don’t  you  wish  that  you  were  me  ? 

You  have  seen  the  scarlet  trees 
And  the  lions  over  seas; 

You  have  eaten  ostrich  eggs, 

And  turned  the  turtles  off  their  legs. 

Such  a  life  is  very  fine, 

But  it’s  not  so  nice  as  mine: 

You  must  often,  as  you  trod. 

Have  wearied  not  to  be  abroad. 

You  have  curious  things  to  eat, 

I  am  fed  on  proper  meat; 

You  must  dwell  beyond  the  foam, 

But  I  am  safe  and  live  at  home. 


OF  VERSES 


23 


Little  Indian,  Sioux  or  Crow, 

Little  frosty  Eskimo, 

Little  Turk  or  Japanee, 

O  !  don’t  you  wish  that  you  were  me  ? 

XXIX 

THE  SUN’S  TRAVELS 

THE  sun  is  not  a-bed  when  I 
At  night  upon  my  pillow  lie; 

Still  round  the  earth  his  way  he  takes. 
And  morning  after  morning  makes. 

While  here  at  home,  in  shining  day, 

We  round  the  sunny  garden  play. 

Each  little  Indian  sleepy-head 
Is  being  kissed  and  put  to  bed. 

And  when  at  eve  I  rise  from  tea, 

Day  dawns  beyond  the  Atlantic  Sea; 
And  all  the  children  in  the  West 
Are  getting  up  and  being  dressed. 


XXX 

THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


MY  tea  is  nearly  ready  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky; 

It’s  time  to  take  the  window  to  see  Leerie  going  by; 
For  every  night  at  tea-time  and  before  you  take  your  seat, 
With  lantern  and  with  ladder  he  comes  posting  up  the 
street. 


u 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Now  Tom  would  be  a  driver  and  Maria  go  to  sea. 

And  my  papa’s  a  banker  and  as  rich  as  he  can  be; 

But  I,  when  I  am  stronger  and  can  choose  what  I’m  to  do, 
O  Leerie,  I’ll  go  round  at  night  and  light  the  lamps  with 
you! 

For  we  are  very  lucky,  with  a  lamp  before  the  door, 

And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it  as  he  lights  so  many  more; 
And  0 !  before  you  hurry  by  with  ladder  and  with  light, 
O  Leerie,  see  a  little  child  and  nod  to  him  to-night ! 


XXXI 

MY  BED  IS  A  BOAT 


MY  bed  is  like  a  little  boat; 

Nurse  helps  me  in  when  I  embark; 
She  girds  me  in  my  sailor’s  coat 
And  starts  me  in  the  dark. 


At  night,  I  go  on  board  and  say 

Good-night  to  all  my  friends  on  shore; 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  sail  away 
And  see  and  hear  no  more. 

And  sometimes  things  to  bed  I  take. 
As  prudent  sailors  have  to  do; 
Perhaps  a  slice  of  wedding-cake, 
Perhaps  a  toy  or  two. 


OF  VERSES 


25 


All  night  across  the  dark  we  steer; 

But  when  the  day  returns  at  last, 
Safe  in  my  room,  beside  the  pier, 

I  find  my  vessel  fast. 


XXXII 


THE  MOON 


THE  moon  has  a  face  like  the  clock  in  the  hall; 

She  shines  on  thieves  on  the  garden  wall, 
On  streets  and  fields  and  harbour  quays, 

And  birdies  asleep  in  the  forks  of  the  trees. 


The  squalling  cat  and  the  squeaking  mouse, 
The  howling  dog  by  the  door  of  the  house, 
The  bat  that  lies  in  bed  at  noon, 

All  love  to  be  out  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  all  of  the  things  that  belong  to  the  day 
Cuddle  to  sleep  to  be  out  of  her  way; 

And  flowers  and  children  close  their  eyes 
Till  up  in  the  morning  the  sun  shall  arise. 


XXXIII 

THE  SWING 

HOW  do  you  like  to  go  up  in  a  swing. 
Up  in  the  air  so  blue  ? 

Oh,  I  do  think  it  the  pleasantest  thing 
Ever  a  child  can  do ! 


26 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Up  in  the  air  and  over  the  wall, 

Till  I  can  see  so  wide. 

Rivers  and  trees  and  cattle  and  all 
Over  the  countryside — 

Till  I  look  down  on  the  garden  green, 
Down  on  the  roof  so  brown — 

Up  in  the  air  I  go  flying  again, 

Up  in  the  air  and  down ! 


* 


XXXIV 


TIME  TO  RISE 


A  BIRDIE  with  a  yellow  bill 
Hopped  upon  the  window  sill, 
Cocked  his  shining  eye  and  said: 
“Ain’t  you  ’shamed,  you  sleepy-head  ! ” 


XXXV 


LOOKING-GLASS  RIVER 


SMOOTH  it  slides  upon  its  travel, 
Here  a  wimple,  there  a  gleam — 
O  the  clean  gravel ! 

O  the  smooth  stream ! 


Sailing  blossoms,  silver  fishes, 

Paven  pools  as  clear  as  air — 
How  a  child  wishes 
To  live  down  there ! 


OF  VERSES 


27 


We  can  see  our  coloured  faces 
Floating  on  the  shaken  pool 
Down  in  cool  places. 

Dim  and  very  cool; 

Till  a  wind  or  water  wrinkle, 

Dipping  marten,  plumping  trout, 
Spreads  in  a  twinkle 
And  blots  all  out. 

See  the  rings  pursue  each  other; 

All  below  grows  black  as  night, 
Just  as  if  mother 
Had  blown  out  the  light ! 

Patience,  children,  just  a  minute — 
See  the  spreading  circles  die; 

The  stream  and  all  in  it 
Will  clear  by-and-by. 


XXXVI 

FAIRY  BREAD 


COME  up  here,  O  dusty  feet ! 

Here  is  fairy  bread  to  eat. 
Here  in  my  retiring  room, 
Children,  you  may  dine 
On  the  golden  smell  of  broom 
And  the  shade  of  pine; 

And  when  you  have  eaten  well, 
Fairy  stories  hear  and  tell. 


28 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


XXXVII 

FROM  A  RAILWAY  CARRIAGE 

FASTER  than  fairies,  faster  than  witches. 
Bridges  and  houses,  hedges  and  ditches; 
And  charging  along  like  troops  in  a  battle, 

All  through  the  meadows  the  horses  and  cattle: 
All  of  the  sights  of  the  hill  and  the  plain 
Fly  as  thick  as  driving  rain; 

And  ever  again,  in  the  wink  of  an  eye, 

Painted  stations  whistle  by. 

Here  is  a  child  who  clambers  and  scrambles, 

All  by  himself  and  gathering  brambles; 

Here  is  a  tramp  who  stands  and  gazes; 

And  there  is  the  green  for  stringing  the  daisies ! 
Here  is  a  cart  run  away  in  the  road 
Lumping  along  with  man  and  load; 

And  here  is  a  mill,  and  there  is  a  river: 

Each  a  glimpse  and  gone  for  ever ! 


XXXVIII 


WINTER-TIME 

I  ATE  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed, 

A  frosty,  fiery  sleepy-head; 
Blinks  but  an  hour  or  two;  and  then, 
A  blood-red  orange,  sets  again. 


OF  VERSES 


29 


Before  the  stars  have  left  the  skies, 

At  morning  in  the  dark  I  rise; 

And  shivering  in  my  nakedness, 

By  the  cold  candle,  bathe  and  dress. 

Close  by  the  jolly  fire  I  sit 
To  warm  my  frozen  bones  a  bit; 

Or  with  a  reindeer-sled,  explore 
The  colder  countries  round  the  door. 

When,  to  go  out,  my  nurse  doth  wrap 
Me  in  my  comforter  and  cap; 

The  cold  wind  burns  my  face,  and  blows 
Its  frosty  pepper  up  my  nose. 

Black  are  my  steps  on  silver  sod; 

Thick  blows  my  frosty  breath  abroad; 
And  tree  and  house,  and  hill  and  lake, 
Are  frosted  like  a  wedding-cake. 

XXXIX 

THE  HAYLOFT 

THROUGH  all  the  pleasant  meadow-side 
The  grass  grew  shoulder-high. 

Till  the  shining  scythes  went  far  and  wide 
And  cut  it  down  to  dry. 

These  green  and  sweetly  smelling  crops 
They  led  in  waggons  home; 

And  they  piled  them  here  in  mountain  tops 
For  mountaineers  to  roam. 


30 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Here  is  Mount  Clear,  Mount  Rusty-Nail, 
Mount  Eagle  and  Mount  High; — 

The  mice  that  in  these  mountains  dwell 
No  happier  are  than  I ! 

O  what  a  joy  to  clamber  there, 

O  what  a  place  for  play, 

With  the  sweet,  the  dim,  the  dusty  air. 
The  happy  hills  of  hay ! 

XL 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  FARM 

THE  coach  is  at  the  door  at  last; 

The  eager  children,  mounting  fast 
And  kissing  hands,  in  chorus  sing: 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything ! 

To  house  and  garden,  field  and  lawn, 
The  meadow-gates  we  swang  upon, 

To  pump  and  stable,  tree  and  swing, 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything ! 

And  fare  you  well  for  evermore, 

O  ladder  at  the  hayloft  door, 

O  hayloft  where  the  cobwebs  cling. 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything ! 

Crack  goes  the  whip,  and  off  we  go; 
The  trees  and  houses  smaller  grow; 
Last,  round  the  woody  turn  we  swing: 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything ! 


OF  VERSES 


31 


XLI 

NORTH-WEST  PASSAGE 
1.  GOOD  NIGHT 

WHEN  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in. 
The  sunless  hours  again  begin; 
O’er  all  without,  in  field  and  lane, 

The  haunted  night  returns  again. 

Now  we  behold  the  embers  flee 
About  the  firelit  hearth;  and  see 
Our  faces  painted  as  we  pass 
Like  pictures,  on  the  window-glass. 

Must  we  to  bed  indeed?  Well  then, 

Let  us  arise  and  go  like  men, 

And  face  with  an  undaunted  tread 
The  long  black  passage  up  to  bed. 

Farewell,  O  brother,  sister,  sire ! 

O  pleasant  party  round  the  fire ! 

The  songs  you  sing,  the  tales  you  tell, 
Till  far  to-morrow,  fare  ye  well ! 


2.  SHADOW  MARCH 


All  round  the  house  is  the  jet-black  night; 

It  stares  through  the  window-pane; 

It  crawls  in  the  corners,  hiding  from  the  light, 
And  it  moves  with  the  moving  flame. 


3  % 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Now  my  little  heart  goes  a-beating  like  a  drum, 

With  the  breath  of  the  Bogie  in  my  hair; 

And  all  round  the  candle  the  crooked  shadows  come, 
And  go  marching  along  up  the  stair. 

The  shadow  of  the  balusters,  the  shadow  of  the  lamp, 
The  shadow  of  the  child  that  goes  to  bed — 

All  the  wicked  shadows  coming  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
With  the  black  night  overhead. 


3.  IN  PORT 

Last,  to  the  chamber  where  I  lie 
My  fearful  footsteps  patter  nigh, 

And  come  from  out  the  cold  and  gloom 
Into  my  warm  and  cheerful  room. 

There,  safe  arrived,  we  turn  about 
To  keep  the  coming  shadows  out. 

And  close  the  happy  door  at  last 
On  all  the  perils  that  we  passed. 

Then,  when  mamma  goes  by  to  bed, 
She  shall  come  in  with  tip-toe  tread, 
And  see  me  lying  warm  and  fast 
And  in  the  Land  of  Nod  at  last. 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


i 

THE  UNSEEN  PLAYMATE 

WHEN  children  are  playing  alone  on  the  green. 
In  comes  the  playmate  that  never  was  seen. 
When  children  are  happy  and  lonely  and  good, 

The  Friend  of  the  Children  comes  out  of  the  wood. 

Nobody  heard  him  and  nobody  saw, 

His  is  a  picture  you  never  could  draw, 

But  he’s  sure  to  be  present,  abroad  or  at  home, 

When  children  are  happy  and  playing  alone. 

He  lies  in  the  laurels,  he  runs  on  the  grass, 

He  sings  when  you  tinkle  the  musical  glass; 

Whene’er  you  are  happy  and  cannot  tell  why, 

The  Friend  of  the  Children  is  sure  to  be  by ! 

He  loves  to  be  little,  he  hates  to  be  big, 

’Tis  he  that  inhabits  the  caves  that  you  dig; 

’Tis  he  when  you  play  with  your  soldiers  of  tin 
That  sides  with  the  Frenchmen  and  never  can  win. 

’Tis  he,  when  at  night  you  go  off  to  your  bed, 

Bids  you  go  to  your  sleep  and  not  trouble  your  head 
For  wherever  they’re  lying,  in  cupboard  or  shelf, 

’Tis  he  will  take  care  of  your  playthings  himself ! 


34 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


II 

MY  SHIP  AND  I 

OIT’S  I  that  am  the  captain  of  a  tidy  little  ship, 

Of  a  ship  that  goes  a-sailing  on  the  pond; 

And  my  ship  it  keeps  a-turning  all  around  and  all  about; 
But  when  I’m  a  little  older,  I  shall  find  the  secret  out 
How  to  send  my  vessel  sailing  on  beyond. 

For  I  mean  to  grow  as  little  as  the  dolly  at  the  helm, 
And  the  dolly  I  intend  to  come  alive; 

And  with  him  beside  to  help  me,  it’s  a-sailing  I  shall  go, 
It’s  a-sailing  on  the  water,  when  the  jolly  breezes  blow 
And  the  vessel  goes  a  divie-divie-dive. 

O  it’s  then  you’ll  see  me  sailing  through  the  rushes  and 
the  reeds, 

And  you’ll  hear  the  water  singing  at  the  prow; 

For  beside  the  dolly  sailor,  I’m  to  voyage  and  explore, 
To  land  upon  the  island  where  no  dolly  was  before, 

And  to  fire  the  penny  cannon  in  the  bow. 

Ill 

MY  KINGDOM 

DOWN  by  a  shining  water  well 
I  found  a  very  little  dell, 

No  higher  than  my  head. 

The  heather  and  the  gorse  about 
In  summer  bloom  were  coming  out, 

Some  yellow  and  some  red. 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


35 


I  called  the  little  pool  a  sea; 

The  little  hills  were  big  to  me; 

For  I  am  very  small. 

I  made  a  boat,  I  made  a  town, 

I  searched  the  caverns  up  and  down. 
And  named  them  one  and  all. 

And  all  about  was  mine,  I  said. 

The  little  sparrows  overhead, 

The  little  minnows  too. 

This  was  the  world  and  I  was  king; 
For  me  the  bees  came  by  to  sing, 
For  me  the  swallows  flew. 

I  played  there  were  no  deeper  seas. 
Nor  any  wider  plains  than  these, 

Nor  other  kings  than  me. 

At  last  I  heard  my  mother  call 
Out  from  the  house  at  even-fall. 

To  call  me  home  to  tea. 

And  I  must  rise  and  leave  my  dell, 
And  leave  my  dimpled  water  well, 
And  leave  my  heather  blooms. 
Alas !  and  as  my  home  I  neared, 

How  very  big  my  nurse  appeared, 
How  great  and  cool  the  rooms ! 


36 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


IV 

PICTURE-BOOKS  IN  WINTER 

SUMMER  fading,  winter  comes — 
Frosty  mornings,  tingling  thumbs, 
Window  robins,  winter  rooks, 

And  the  picture  story-books. 

Water  now  is  turned  to  stone 
Nurse  and  I  can  walk  upon; 

Still  we  find  the  flowing  brooks 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

All  the  pretty  things  put  by, 

Wait  upon  the  children’s  eye, 

Sheep  and  shepherds,  trees  and  crooks, 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

We  may  see  how  all  things  are 
Seas  and  cities,  near  and  far, 

And  the  flying  fairies’  looks, 

In  the  picture  story-books. 

How  am  I  to  sing  your  praise, 

Happy  chimney-corner  days. 

Sitting  safe  in  nursery  nooks, 

Reading  picture  story-books  ? 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


37 


V 


MY  TREASURES 


THESE  nuts,  that  I  keep  in  the  back  of  the  nest 
Where  all  my  lead  soldiers  are  lying  at  rest, 
Were  gathered  in  autumn  by  nursie  and  me 
In  a  wood  with  a  well  by  the  side  of  the  sea. 


This  whistle  we  made  (and  how  clearly  it  sounds !) 
By  the  side  of  a  field  at  the  end  of  the  grounds. 

Of  a  branch  of  a  plane,  with  a  knife  of  my  own, 

It  was  nursie  who  made  it,  and  nursie  alone ! 


The  stone,  with  the  white  and  the  yellow  and  grey. 
We  discovered  I  cannot  tell  how  far  away; 

And  I  carried  it  back  although  weary  and  cold. 

For,  though  father  denies  it,  I’m  sure  it  is  gold. 

But  of  all  my  treasures  the  last  is  the  king, 

For  there’s  very  few  children  possess  such  a  thing; 
And  that  is  a  chisel,  both  handle  and  blade, 

Which  a  man  who  was  really  a  carpenter  made. 


VI 

BLOCK  CITY 

WHAT  are  you  able  to  build  with  your  blocks? 

Castles  and  palaces,  temples  and  docks. 

Rain  may  keep  raining,  and  others  go  roam. 

But  I  can  be  happy  and  building  at  home. 


38 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Let  the  sofa  be  mountains,  the  carpet  be  sea, 
There  I’ll  establish  a  city  for  me: 

A  kirk  and  a  mill  and  a  palace  beside, 

And  a  harbour  as  well  where  my  vessels  may  ride. 

Great  is  the  palace  with  pillar  and  wall, 

A  sort  of  a  tower  on  the  top  of  it  all, 

And  steps  coming  down  in  an  orderly  way 
To  where  my  toy  vessels  lie  safe  in  the  bay. 

This  one  is  sailing  and  that  one  is  moored: 

Hark  to  the  song  of  the  sailors  on  board ! 

And  see  on  the  steps  of  my  palace,  the  kings 
Coming  and  going  with  presents  and  things ! 

Now  I  have  done  with  it,  down  let  it  go ! 

All  in  a  moment  the  town  is  laid  low. 

Block  upon  block  lying  scattered  and  free, 

What  is  there  left  of  my  town  by  the  sea  ? 

Yet  as  I  saw  it,  I  see  it  again, 

The  kirk  and  the  palace,  the  ships  and  the  men, 
And  as  long  as  I  live,  and  where’er  I  may  be. 

I’ll  always  remember  my  town  by  the  sea. 


VII 

THE  LAND  OF  STORY-BOOKS 


Around  the  fire  my  parents  sit; 
They  sit  at  home  and  talk  and  sing, 
And  do  not  play  at  anything. 


T  evening  when  the  lamp  is  lit, 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


Now,  with  my  little  gun,  I  crawl 
All  in  the  dark  along  the  wall, 

And  follow  round  the  forest  track 
Away  behind  the  sofa  back. 

There,  in  the  night,  where  none  can  spy 
All  in  my  hunter’s  camp  I  lie, 

And  play  at  books  that  I  have  read 
Till  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

These  are  the  hills,  these  are  the  woods, 
These  are  my  starry  solitudes; 

And  there  the  river  by  whose  brink 
The  roaring  lions  come  to  drink. 

I  see  the  others  far  away 
As  if  in  firelit  camp  they  lay, 

And  I,  like  to  an  Indian  scout, 

Around  their  party  prowled  about. 

So,  when  my  nurse  comes  in  for  me. 
Home  I  return  across  the  sea, 

And  go  to  bed  with  backward  looks 
At  my  dear  land  of  Story-books. 


VIII 

ARMIES  IN  THE  FIRE 

nHHE  lamps  now  glitter  down  the  street 
Faintly  sound  the  falling  feet; 

And  the  blue  even  slowly  falls 
About  the  garden  trees  and  walls. 


40 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Now  in  the  falling  of  the  gloom 
The  red  fire  paints  the  empty  room: 
And  warmly  on  the  roof  it  looks, 

And  flickers  on  the  backs  of  books. 

Armies  march  by  tower  and  spire 
Of  cities  blazing,  in  the  fire; — 

Till  as  I  gaze  with  staring  eyes, 

The  armies  fade,  the  lustre  dies. 

Then  once  again  the  glow  returns; 
Again  the  phantom  city  burns; 

And  down  the  red-hot  valley,  lo ! 
The  phantom  armies  marching  go ! 

Blinking  embers,  tell  me  true 
Where  are  those  armies  marching  to. 
And  what  the  burning  city  is 
That  crumbles  in  your  furnaces ! 


IX 

THE  LITTLE  LAND 


WHEN  at  home  alone  I  sit 
And  am  very  tired  of  it, 

I  have  just  to  shut  my  eyes 
To  go  sailing  through  the  skies— 
To  go  sailing  far  away 
To  the  pleasant  Land  of  Play; 

To  the  fairy  land  afar 
Where  the  Little  People  are; 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


41 


Where  the  clover-tops  are  trees, 
And  the  rain-pools  are  the  seas, 
And  the  leaves  like  little  ships 
Sail  about  on  tiny  trips; 

And  above  the  daisy  tree 
Through  the  grasses, 

High  o’erhead  the  Bumble  Bee 
Hums  and  passes. 

In  that  forest  to  and  fro 
I  can  wander,  I  can  go; 

See  the  spider  and  the  fly, 

And  the  ants  go  marching  by 
Carrying  parcels  with  their  feet 
Down  the  green  and  grassy  street, 
I  can  in  the  sorrel  sit 
Where  the  ladybird  alit. 

I  can  climb  the  jointed  grass; 

And  on  high 

See  the  greater  swallows  pass 
In  the  sky, 

And  the  round  sun  rolling  by 
Heeding  no  such  things  as  I. 

Through  that  forest  I  can  pass 
Till,  as  in  a  looking-glass, 
Humming  fly  and  daisy  tree 
And  my  tiny  self  I  see, 

Painted  very  clear  and  neat 
On  the  rain-pool  at  my  feet. 
Should  a  leaflet  come  to  land 
Drifting  near  to  where  I  stand, 


42 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


Straight  I’ll  board  that  tiny  boat 
Round  the  rain-pool  sea  to  float. 

Little  thoughtful  creatures  sit 
On  the  grassy  coasts  of  it; 

Little  things  with  lovely  eyes 
See  me  sailing  with  surprise. 

Some  are  clad  in  armour  green — 
(These  have  sure  to  battle  been  !) — 
Some  are  pied  with  ev’ry  hue, 

Black  and  crimson,  gold  and  blue; 
Some  have  wings  and  swift  are  gone 
But  they  all  look  kindly  on. 

When  my  eyes  I  once  again 
Open,  and  see  all  things  plain: 

High  bare  walls,  great  bare  floor; 
Great  big  knobs  on  drawer  and  door 
Great  big  people  perched  on  chairs. 
Stitching  tucks  and  mending  tears, 
Each  a  hill  that  I  could  climb, 

And  talking  nonsense  all  the  time — 
O  dear  me, 

That  I  could  be 
A  sailor  on  the  rain-pool  sea, 

A  climber  in  the  clover  tree, 

And  just  come  back,  a  sleepy -head, 
Late  at  night  to  go  to  bed. 


GARDEN  DAYS 


i 

NIGHT  AND  DAY 

WHEN  the  golden  day  is  done. 
Through  the  closing  portal, 
Child  and  garden,  flower  and  sun, 
Vanish  all  things  mortal. 

As  the  blinding  shadows  fall 
As  the  rays  diminish, 

Under  evening’s  cloak,  they  all 
Roll  away  and  vanish. 

Garden  darkened,  daisy  shut, 

Child  in  bed,  they  slumber — 
Glow-worm  in  the  highway  rut. 
Mice  among  the  lumber. 

In  the  darkness  houses  shine. 
Parents  move  with  candles; 

Till  on  all,  the  night  divine 
Turns  the  bedroom  handles. 

Till  at  last  the  day  begins 
In  the  east  a-breaking, 

In  the  hedges  and  the  whins 
Sleeping  birds  a-waking. 

43 


44 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


In  the  darkness  shapes  of  things, 
Houses,  trees,  and  hedges, 

Clearer  grow;  and  sparrows’  wings 
Beat  on  window  ledges. 

These  shall  wake  the  yawning  maid; 
She  the  door  shall  open — 

Finding  dew  on  garden  glade 
And  the  morning  broken. 

There  my  garden  grows  again 
Green  and  rosy  painted, 

As  at  eve  behind  the  pane 
From  my  eyes  it  fainted. 

Just  as  it  was  shut  away, 

Toy-like,  in  the  even, 

Here  I  see  it  glow  with  day 
Under  glowing  heaven. 

Every  path  and  every  plot. 

Every  bush  of  roses. 

Every  blue  forget-me-not 
Where  the  dew  reposes, 

“Up !”  they  cry,  “the  day  is  come 
On  the  smiling  valleys: 

We  have  beat  the  morning  drum; 
Playmate,  join  your  allies  !” 


GARDEN  DAYS 


45 


II 

NEST  EGGS 


>IRDS  all  the  sunny  day 
Flutter  and  quarrel, 
Here  in  the  arbour-like 
Tent  of  the  laurel. 


Here  in  the  fork 

The  brown  nest  is  seated; 
Four  little  blue  eggs 

The  mother  keeps  heated. 


While  we  stand  watching  her, 
Staring  like  gabies, 

Safe  in  each  egg  are  the 
Bird’s  little  babies. 


Soon  the  frail  eggs  they  shall 
Chip,  and  upspringing, 
Make  all  the  April  woods 
Merry  with  singing. 

Younger  than  we  are, 

O  children,  and  frailer, 
Soon  in  blue  air  they’ll  be, 
Singer  and  sailor. 

We,  so  much  older, 

Taller  and  stronger, 

We  shall  look  down  on  the 
Birdies  no  longer. 


46 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


They  shall  go  flying 
With  musical  speeches 
High  overhead  in  the 
Tops  of  the  beeches. 

In  spite  of  our  wisdom 
And  sensible  talking, 
We  on  our  feet  must  go 
Plodding  and  walking. 


Ill 


THE  FLOWERS 


LL  the  names  I  know  from  nurse: 


^  Gardener’s  garters,  Shepherd’s  purse. 
Bachelor’s  buttons,  Lady’s  smock, 

And  the  Lady  Hollyhock. 

Fairy  places,  fairy  things, 

Fairy  woods  where  the  wild  bee  wings. 
Tiny  trees  for  tiny  dames — 

These  must  all  be  fairy  names ! 

Tiny  woods  below  whose  boughs 
Shady  fairies  weave  a  house; 

Tiny  tree-tops,  rose  or  thyme, 

Where  the  braver  fairies  climb ! 

Fair  are  grown-up  people’s  trees. 

But  the  fairest  woods  are  these; 

Where  if  I  were  not  so  tall, 

I  should  live  for  good  and  all. 


GARDEN  DAYS 


47 


IV 

SUMMER  SUN 

GREAT  is  the  sun,  and  wide  he  goes 

Through  empty  heaven  without  repose; 
And  in  the  blue  and  glowing  days 
More  thick  than  rain  he  showers  his  rays. 

Though  closer  still  the  blinds  we  pull 
To  keep  the  shady  parlour  cool. 

Yet  he  will  find  a  chink  or  two 
To  slip  his  golden  fingers  through. 

The  dusty  attic,  spider-clad. 

He,  through  the  keyhole,  maketh  glad; 

And  through  the  broken  edge  of  tiles. 

Into  the  laddered  hayloft  smiles. 

Meantime  his  golden  face  around 
He  bares  to  all  the  garden  ground. 

And  sheds  a  warm  and  glittering  look 
Among  the  ivy’s  inmost  nook. 

Above  the  hills,  along  the  blue, 

Round  the  bright  air  with  footing  true, 

To  please  the  child,  to  paint  the  rose, 

The  gardener  of  the  World,  he  goes. 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


v 

THE  DUMB  SOLDIER 

WHEN  the  grass  was  closely  mown 
Walking  on  the  lawn  alone, 

In  the  turf  a  hole  I  found 
And  hid  a  soldier  underground. 

Spring  and  daisies  came  apace; 

Grasses  hide  my  hiding-place; 

Grasses  run  like  a  green  sea 
O’er  the  lawn  up  to  my  knee. 

Under  grass  alone  he  lies, 

Looking  up  with  leaden  eyes. 

Scarlet  coat  and  pointed  gun, 

To  the  stars  and  to  the  sun. 

When  the  grass  is  ripe  like  grain, 

When  the  scythe  is  stoned  again, 

When  the  lawn  is  shaven  clear, 

Then  my  hole  shall  reappear. 

I  shall  find  him,  never  fear, 

I  shall  find  my  grenadier; 

But,  for  all  that’s  gone  and  come, 

I  shall  find  my  soldier  dumb. 

He  has  lived,  a  little  thing, 

In  the  grassy  woods  of  spring; 

Done,  if  he  could  tell  me  true, 

Just  as  I  should  like  to  do. 


GARDEN  DAYS 


49 


He  has  seen  the  starry  hours 
And  the  springing  of  the  flowers; 
And  the  fairy  things  that  pass 
In  the  forests  of  the  grass. 

In  the  silence  he  has  heard 
Talking  bee  and  ladybird, 

And  the  butterfly  has  flown 
O’er  him  as  he  lay  alone. 

Not  a  word  will  he  disclose, 

Not  a  word  of  all  he  knows. 

I  must  lay  him  on  the  shelf, 

And  make  up  the  tale  myself 

VI 

AUTUMN  FIRES 

IN  the  other  gardens 
And  all  up  the  vale, 

From  the  autumn  bonfires 
See  the  smoke  trail ! 

Pleasant  summer  over 

And  all  the  summer  flowers, 
The  red  fire  blazes, 

The  grey  smoke  towers. 

Sing  a  song  of  seasons ! 

Something  bright  in  all ! 
Flowers  in  the  summer, 

Fires  in  the  fall ! 


50 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


VII 

THE  GARDENER 

THE  gardener  does  not  love  to  talk. 
He  makes  me  keep  the  gravel  walk; 
And  when  he  puts  his  tools  away, 

He  locks  the  door  and  takes  the  key. 

Away  behind  the  currant  row 
Where  no  one  else  but  cook  may  go. 

Far  in  the  plots,  I  see  him  dig, 

Old  and  serious,  brown  and  big. 

He  digs  the  flowers,  green,  red,  and  blue, 
Nor  wishes  to  be  spoken  to. 

He  digs  the  flowers  and  cuts  the  hay, 
And  never  seems  to  want  to  play. 

Silly  gardener !  summer  goes, 

And  winter  comes  with  pinching  toes. 
When  in  the  garden  bare  and  brown 
You  must  lay  your  barrow  down. 

Well  now,  and  while  the  summer  stays. 
To  profit  by  these  garden  days, 

O  how  much  wiser  you  would  be 
To  play  at  Indian  wars  with  me ! 


GARDEN  DAYS 


51 


VIII 

HISTORICAL  ASSOCIATIONS 

DEAR  Uncle  Jim,  this  garden  ground, 

That  now  you  smoke  your  pipe  around. 
Has  seen  immortal  actions  done 
And  valiant  battles  lost  and  won. 

Here  we  had  best  on  tip-toe  tread, 

While  I  for  safety  march  ahead. 

For  this  is  that  enchanted  ground 
Where  all  who  loiter  slumber  sound. 

Here  is  the  sea,  here  is  the  sand. 

Here  is  simple  Shepherd’s  Land, 

Here  are  the  fairy  hollyhocks. 

And  there  are  Ali  Baba’s  rocks. 

But  yonder,  see !  apart  and  high. 

Frozen  Siberia  lies;  where  I, 

With  Robert  Bruce  and  William  Tell, 

Was  bound  by  an  enchanter’s  spell. 

There,  then,  a  while  in  chains  we  lay. 

In  wintry  dungeons,  far  from  day; 

But  ris’n  at  length,  with  might  and  main, 
Our  iron  fetters  burst  in  twain. 

Then  all  the  horns  were  blown  in  town; 

And,  to  the  ramparts  clanging  down, 

All  the  giants  leaped  to  horse 

And  charged  behind  us  through  the  gorse. 


52 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


On  we  rode,  the  others  and  I, 

Over  the  mountains  blue,  and  by 
The  Silver  River,  the  sounding  sea. 

And  the  robber  woods  of  Tartary. 

A  thousand  miles  we  galloped  fast, 

And  down  the  witches’  lane  we  passed, 
And  rode  amain,  with  brandished  sword. 
Up  to  the  middle,  through  the  ford. 

Last  we  drew  rein — a  weary  three — 
Upon  the  lawn,  in  time  for  tea, 

And  from  our  steeds  alighted  down 
Before  the  gates  of  Babylon. 


ENVOYS 


i 

TO  WILLIE  AND  HENRIETTA 

IF  two  may  read  aright 

These  rhymes  of  old  delight 
And  house  and  garden  play, 

You  two,  my  cousins,  and  you  only,  may. 

You  in  a  garden  green 
With  me  were  king  and  queen, 

Were  hunter,  soldier,  tar, 

And  all  the  thousand  things  that  children  are. 

Now  in  the  elders’  seat 
We  rest  with  quiet  feet. 

And  from  the  window-bay 
We  watch  the  children,  our  successors,  play. 

“Time  was,”  the  golden  head 
Irrevocably  said; 

But  time  which  none  can  bind, 

While  flowing  fast  away,  leaves  love  behind. 


53 


54 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


II 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


YOU,  too,  my  mother,  read  my  rhymes 
For  love  of  unforgotten  times, 

And  you  may  chance  to  hear  once  more 
The  little  feet  along  the  floor. 


Ill 

TO  AUNTIE 


CHIEF  of  our  aunts — not  only  I, 

But  all  your  dozen  of  nurslings  cry — 
What  did  the  other  children  do? 

And  what  were  childhood ,  wanting  you? 


IV 


TO  MINNIE 


THE  red  room  with  the  giant  bed 

Where  none  but  elders  laid  their  head; 
The  little  room  where  you  and  I 
Did  for  a  while  together  lie 
And,  simple  suitor,  I  your  hand 
In  decent  marriage  did  demand; 

The  great  day-nursery,  best  of  all. 

With  pictures  pasted  on  the  wall 


ENVOYS 


55 


And  leaves  upon  the  blind — 

A  pleasant  room  wherein  to  wake 
And  hear  the  leafy  garden  shake 
And  rustle  in  the  wind — 

And  pleasant  there  to  lie  in  bed 
And  see  the  pictures  overhead — 

The  wars  about  Sebastopol, 

The  grinning  guns  along  the  wall, 

The  daring  escalade. 

The  plunging  ships,  the  bleating  sheep, 
The  happy  children  ankle-deep, 

And  laughing  as  they  wade: 

All  these  are  vanished  clean  away, 

And  the  old  manse  is  changed  to-day; 
It  wears  an  altered  face 
And  shields  a  stranger  race. 

The  river,  on  from  mill  to  mill. 

Flows  past  our  childhood’s  garden  still; 
But  ah !  we  children  never  more 
Shall  watch  it  from  the  water-door ! 
Below  the  yew — it  still  is  there — 

Our  phantom  voices  haunt  the  air 
As  we  were  still  at  play, 

And  I  can  hear  them  call  and  say: 
“How  far  is  it  to  Babylon ?” 

Ah,  far  enough,  my  dear. 

Far,  far  enough  from  here— 

Yet  you  have  farther  gone ! 

“Can  I  get  there  by  candlelight?” 

So  goes  the  old  refrain. 


56 


A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 


I  do  not  know — perchance  you  might — 

But  only,  children,  hear  it  right, 

Ah,  never  to  return  again ! 

The  eternal  dawn,  beyond  a  doubt, 

Shall  break  on  hill  and  plain, 

And  put  all  stars  and  candles  out 
Ere  we  be  young  again. 

To  you  in  distant  India,  these 
I  send  across  the  seas. 

Nor  count  it  far  across. 

For  which  of  us  forgets 
The  Indian  cabinets, 

The  bones  of  antelope,  the  wings  of  albatross. 
The  pied  and  painted  birds  and  beans, 

The  junks  and  bangles,  beads  and  screens, 
The  gods  and  sacred  bells, 

And  the  loud-humming,  twisted  shells? 

The  level  of  the  parlour  floor 
Was  honest,  homely,  Scottish  shore; 

But  when  we  climbed  upon  a  chair, 

Behold  the  gorgeous  East  was  there ! 

Be  this  a  fable;  and  behold 
Me  in  the  parlour  as  of  old. 

And  Minnie  just  above  me  set 
In  the  quaint  Indian  cabinet ! 

Smiling  and  kind,  you  grace  a  shelf 
Too  high  for  me  to  reach  myself. 

Reach  down  a  hand,  my  dear,  and  take 
These  rhymes  for  old  acquaintance’  sake ! 


ENVOYS 


57 


V 

TO  MY  NAME-CHILD 

1 

SOME  day  soon  this  rhyming  volume,  if  you  learn 
with  proper  speed, 

Little  Louis  Sanchez,  will  be  given  you  to  read. 

Then  shall  you  discover,  that  your  name  was  printed 
down 

By  the  English  printers,  long  before,  in  London  town. 

In  the  great  and  busy  city  where  the  East  and  West  are 
met, 

All  the  little  letters  did  the  English  printer  set; 

While  you  thought  of  nothing,  and  were  still  too  young 
to  play, 

Foreign  people  thought  of  you  in  places  far  away. 

Ay,  and  while  you  slept,  a  baby,  over  all  the  English 
lands 

Other  little  children  took  the  volume  in  their  hands; 
Other  children  questioned,  in  their  homes  across  the  seas : 
Who  was  little  Louis,  won’t  you  tell  us,  mother,  please? 

2 

Now  that  you  have  spelt  your  lesson,  lay  it  down  and 
go  and  play, 

Seeking  shells  and  seaweed  on  the  sands  of  Monterey, 
Watching  all  the  mighty  whalebones,  lying  buried  by 
the  breeze, 

Tiny  sandy-pipers,  and  the  huge  Pacific  seas. 


58  A  CHILD’S  GARDEN 

And  remember  in  your  playing,  as  the  sea-fog  rolls  to 
you. 

Long  ere  you  could  read  it,  how  I  told  you  what  to  do; 
And  that  while  you  thought  of  no  one,  nearly  half  the 
world  away 

Some  one  thought  of  Louis  on  the  beach  of  Monterey ! 


VI 

TO  ANY  READER 

WHETHER  upon  the  garden  seat 

You  lounge  with  your  uplifted  feet 
Under  the  May’s  whole  Heaven  of  blue; 
Or  whether  on  the  sofa  you, 

No  grown  up  person  being  by, 

Do  some  soft  corner  occupy: 

Take  you  this  volume  in  your  hands 
And  enter  into  other  lands, 

For  lo !  (as  children  feign)  suppose 
You,  hunting  in  the  garden  rows, 

Or  in  the  lumbered  attic,  or 
The  cellar — a  nail-studded  door 
And  dark,  descending  stairway  found 
That  led  to  kingdoms  underground: 

There  standing,  you  should  hear  with  ease 
Strange  birds  a-singing,  or  the  trees 
Swing  in  big  robber  woods,  or  bells 
On  many  fairy  citadels: 

There  passing  through  (a  step  or  so 
Neither  mamma  nor  nurse  need  know !) 
From  your  nice  nurseries  you  would  pass 


ENVOYS 


59 


Like  Alice  through  the  Looking-Glass 
Or  Gerda  following  Little  Ray, 

To  wondrous  countries  far  away. 
Well,  and  just  so  this  volume  can 
Transport  each  little  maid  or  man 
Presto  from  where  they  live  away 
Where  other  children  used  to  play. 

As  from  the  house  your  mother  sees 
You  playing  round  the  garden  trees, 
So  you  may  see,  if  you  but  look 
Through  the  windows  of  this  book 
Another  child,  far,  far  away 
And  in  another  garden,  play. 

But  do  not  think  you  can  at  all. 

By  knocking  on  the  window,  call. 
That  child  to  hear  you.  He  intent 
Is  still  on  his  play-business  bent. 

He  does  not  hear,  he  will  not  look. 
Nor  yet  be  lured  out  of  this  book. 
For  long  ago,  the  truth  to  say, 

He  has  grown  up  and  gone  away; 
And  it  is  but  a  child  of  air 
That  lingers  in  the  garden  there. 


II 

UNDERWOODS 

Of  all  my  verse,  like  not  a  single  line; 

But  like  my  title,  for  it  is  not  mine. 

That  title  from  a  better  man  I  stole : 

Ah,  how  much  better,  had  I  stol'n  the  whole! 


DEDICA TION 


There  are  men  and  classes  of  men  that  stand  above  the  common 
herd:  the  soldier ,  the  sailor,  and  the  shepherd  not  unfrequently ; 
the  artist  rarely  ;  rarelier  still,  the  clergyman  ;  the  physician  almost 
as  a  rule.  He  is  the  flower  ( such  as  it  is)  of  our  civilisation  ;  and 
when  that  stage  of  man  is  done  with,  and  only  remembered  to  be 
marvelled  at  in  history,  he  will  be  thought  to  have  shared  as  little 
as  any  in  the  defects  of  the  period,  and  most  notably  exhibited  the 
virtues  of  the  race.  Generosity  he  has,  such  as  is  possible  to  those 
who  practise  an  art,  never  to  those  who  drive  a  trade ;  discretion , 
tested  by  a  hundred  secrets ;  tact,  tried  in  a  thousand  embarrass¬ 
ments;  and  what  are  more  important,  Heraclean  cheerfulness  and 
courage.  So  it  is  that  he  brings  air  and  cheer  into  the  sick-room , 
and  often  enough,  though  not  so  often  as  he  wishes,  brings  healing. 

Gratitude  is  but  a  lame  sentiment;  thanks,  when  they  are  ex¬ 
pressed,  are  often  more  embarrassing  than  welcome;  and  yet  I 
must  set  forth  mine  to  a  few  out  of  many  doctors  who  have  brought 
me  comfort  and  help  :  to  Dr.  Willey  of  San  Francisco,  whose  kind¬ 
ness  to  a  stranger  it  must  be  as  grateful  to  him,  as  it  is  touching  to 
me,  to  remember ;  to  Dr.  Karl  Ruedi  of  Davos,  the  good  genius  of 
the  English  in  his  frosty  mountains  ;  to  Dr.  Herbert  of  Paris,  whom 
I  knew  only  for  a  week,  and  to  Dr.  Caissot  of  Montpellier ,  whom  I 
knew  only  for  ten  days,  and  who  have  yet  written  their  names  deeply 
in  my  memory  ;  to  Dr.  Brandt  of  Roy  at ;  to  Dr.  Wakefield  of  Nice  ; 
to  Dr.  Chepnell,  whose  visits  make  it  a  pleasure  to  be  ill;  to  Dr. 
Horace  Dobell,  so  wise  in  counsel;  to  Sir  Andrew  Clark,  so  un¬ 
wearied  in  kindness  ;  and  to  that  wise  youth,  my  uncle.  Dr.  Balfour. 

I  forget  as  many  as  I  rernember  ;  and  I  ask  both  to  pardon  me, 

63 


these  for  silence ,  those  for  inadequate  speech.  But  one  name  I  have 
kept  on  purpose  to  the  last,  because  it  is  a  household  word  with  me, 
and  because  if  I  had  not  received  favours  from  so  many  hands  and 
in  so  many  quarters  of  the  world,  it  should  have  stood  upon  this  page 
alone:  that  of  my  friend  Thomas  Bodley  Scott  of  Bournemouth. 
Will  he  accept  this,  although  shared  among  so  many,  for  a  dedica¬ 
tion  to  himself?  and  when  next  my  ill-fortune  ( which  has  thus  its 
pleasant  side)  brings  him  hurrying  to  me  when  he  would  fain  sit 
down  to  meat  or  lie  down  to  rest,  will  he  care  to  remember  that  he 
takes  this  trouble  for  one  who  is  not  fool  enough  to  be  ungrateful  ? 


Skerryvore, 

Bournemouth. 


R.  L.  S. 


64 


BOOK  I 
IN  ENGLISH 


UNDERWOODS 


i 

ENVOY 


GO,  little  book,  and  wish  to  all 

Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in  the  hall, 
A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 

A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it, 

A  living  river  by  the  door, 

A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore ! 


II 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

THE  gauger  walked  with  willing  foot, 
And  aye  the  gauger  played  the  flute; 
And  what  should  Master  Gauger  play 
But  Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ? 

Whene’er  I  buckle  on  my  pack 
And  foot  it  gaily  in  the  track, 

A  pleasant  gauger,  long  since  dead, 

I  hear  you  fluting  on  ahead. 

You  go  with  me  the  self-same  way — 

The  self-same  air  for  me  you  play; 

For  I  do  think  and  so  do  you 
It  is  the  tune  to  travel  to. 

67 


68 


UNDERWOODS 


For  who  would  gravely  set  his  face 
To  go  to  this  or  t’other  place? 

There’s  nothing  under  Heav’n  so  blue 
That’s  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to. 

On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 

And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein; 
But  wheresoe’er  the  highways  tend, 
Be  sure  there’s  nothing  at  the  end. 

Then  follow  you,  wherever  hie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  in  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  a  road; 

For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 

Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go; 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 

Forest  of  Montargis,  1878. 


Ill 


THE  CANOE  SPEAKS 


ON  the  great  streams  the  ships  may  go 
About  men’s  business  to  and  fro. 

But  I,  the  egg-shell  pinnace,  sleep 
On  crystal  waters  ankle-deep: 

I,  whose  diminutive  design. 

Of  sweeter  cedar,  pithier  pine, 

Is  fashioned  on  so  frail  a  mould, 


IN  ENGLISH 


69 


A  hand  may  launch,  a  hand  withhold: 
I,  rather,  with  the  leaping  trout 
Wind,  among  lilies,  in  and  out; 

I,  the  unnamed,  inviolate, 

Green,  rustic  rivers  navigate; 

My  dipping  paddle  scarcely  shakes 
The  berry  in  the  bramble-brakes; 

Still  forth  on  my  green  way  I  wend 
Beside  the  cottage  gar  den -end; 

And  by  the  nested  angler  fare, 

And  take  the  lovers  unaware. 

By  willow  wood  and  water-wheel 
Speedily  fleets  my  touching  keel; 

By  all  retired  and  shady  spots 
Where  prosper  dim  forget-me-nots; 

By  meadows  where  at  afternoon 
The  growing  maidens  troop  in  June 
To  loose  their  girdles  on  the  grass. 

Ah !  speedier  than  before  the  glass 
The  backward  toilet  goes;  and  swift 
As  swallows  quiver,  robe  and  shift 
And  the  rough  country  stockings  lie 
Around  each  young  divinity. 

When,  following  the  recondite  brook, 
Sudden  upon  this  scene  I  look, 

And  light  with  unfamiliar  face 
On  chaste  Diana’s  bathing-place, 

Loud  ring  the  hills  about  and  all 
The  shallows  are  abandoned.  .  .  . 


70 


UNDERWOODS 


IV 

IT  is  the  season  now  to  go 

About  the  country  high  and  low. 

Among  the  lilacs  hand  in  hand. 

And  two  by  two  in  fairyland. 

The  brooding  boy,  the  sighing  maid, 

Wholly  fain  and  half  afraid, 

Now  meet  along  the  hazel’ d  brook 
To  pass  and  linger,  pause  and  look. 

A  year  ago,  and  blithely  paired. 

Their  rough-and-tumble  play  they  shared; 
They  kissed  and  quarrelled,  laughed  and  cried, 
A  year  ago  at  Eastertide. 

With  bursting  heart,  with  fiery  face, 

She  strove  against  him  in  the  race; 

He  unabashed  her  garter  saw, 

That  now  would  touch  her  skirts  with  awe. 

Now  by  the  stile  ablaze  she  stops, 

And  his  demurer  eyes  he  drops; 

Now  they  exchanged  averted  sighs 
Or  stand  and  marry  silent  eyes. 

And  he  to  her  a  hero  is 

And  sweeter  she  than  primroses; 

Their  common  silence  dearer  far 
Than  nightingale  or  mavis  are. 


IN  ENGLISH 


71 


Now  when  they  sever  wedded  hands, 
Joy  trembles  in  their  bosom-strands, 
And  lovely  laughter  leaps  and  falls 
Upon  their  lips  in  madrigals. 


V 

THE  HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL 

A  NAKED  house ,  a  naked  moor , 

■AjL  A  shivering  pool  before  the  door , 

A  garden  bare  of  flowers  and  fruit 
And  poplars  at  the  garden  foot : 

Such  is  the  place  that  I  live  in. 

Bleak  without  and  bare  within . 

Yet  shall  your  ragged  moor  receive 
The  incomparable  pomp  of  eve, 

And  the  cold  glories  of  the  dawn 
Behind  your  shivering  trees  be  drawn; 
And  when  the  wind  from  place  to  place 
Doth  the  unmoored  cloud-galleons  chase. 
Your  garden  gloom  and  gleam  again, 
With  leaping  sun,  with  glancing  rain. 
Here  shall  the  wizard  moon  ascend 
The  heavens,  in  the  crimson  end 
Of  day’s  declining  splendour;  here 
The  army  of  the  stars  appear. 

The  neighbour  hollows,  dry  or  wet, 
Spring  shall  with  tender  flowers  beset; 
And  oft  the  morning  muser  see 
Larks  rising  from  the  broomy  lea. 


n 


UNDERWOODS 


And  every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew-bediamonded. 

When  daisies  go,  shall  winter-time 
Silver  the  simple  grass  with  rime; 
Autumnal  frosts  enchant  the  pool 
And  make  the  cart-ruts  beautiful; 

And  when  snow-bright  the  moor  expands, 
How  shall  your  children  clap  their  hands ! 

To  make  this  earth,  our  hermitage, 

A  cheerful  and  a  changeful  page, 

God’s  bright  and  intricate  device 
Of  days  and  seasons  doth  suffice. 

VI 

A  VISIT  FROM  THE  SEA 

FAR  from  the  loud  sea  beaches 

Where  he  goes  fishing  and  crying. 
Here  in  the  inland  garden 
Why  is  the  sea-  gull  flying  P 

Here  are  no  fish  to  dive  for; 

Here  is  the  corn  and  lea; 

Here  are  the  green  trees  rustling. 

Hie  away  home  to  sea ! 

Fresh  is  the  river  water 

And  quiet  among  the  rushes; 

This  is  no  home  for  the  sea-gull 
But  for  the  rooks  and  thrushes. 


IN  ENGLISH 


73 


Pity  the  bird  that  has  wandered ! 

Pity  the  sailor  ashore ! 

Hurry  him  home  to  the  ocean, 

Let  him  come  here  no  more ! 

High  on  the  sea-cliff  ledges 

The  white  gulls  are  trooping  and  crying, 
Here  among  rooks  and  roses, 

Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying? 


VII 

TO  A  GARDENER 

Friend,  in  my  mountain-side  demesne, 
My  plain-beholding,  rosy,  green 
And  linnet-haunted  garden-ground, 

Let  still  the  esculents  abound. 

Let  first  the  onion  flourish  there, 

Rose  among  roots,  the  maiden-fair, 
Wine-scented  and  poetic  soul 
Of  the  capacious  salad-bowl. 

Let  thyme  the  mountaineer  (to  dress 
The  tinier  birds)  and  wading  cress, 

The  lover  of  the  shallow  brook, 

From  all  my  plots  and  borders  look. 

Nor  crisp  and  ruddy  radish,  nor 
Pease-cods  for  the  child’s  pinafore 
Be  lacking;  nor  of  salad  clan 
The  last  and  least  that  ever  ran 
About  great  nature’s  garden-beds. 

Nor  thence  be  missed  the  speary  heads 


74 


UNDERWOODS 


Of  artichoke;  nor  thence  the  bean 
That  gathered  innocent  and  green 
Outsavours  the  belauded  pea. 


These  tend,  I  prithee;  and  for  me, 

Thy  most  long-suffering  master,  bring 
In  April,  when  the  linnets  sing 
And  the  days  lengthen  more  and  more, 
At  sundown  to  the  garden  door. 

And  I,  being  provided  thus, 

Shall,  with  superb  asparagus, 

A  book,  a  taper,  and  a  cup 
Of  country  wine,  divinely  sup. 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres. 


VIII 


TO  MINNIE 

(with  a  hand-glass) 

A  PICTURE-FRAME  for  you  to  fill, 
A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 

A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 

You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 


I  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 
Laid  by  a  while  upon  the  shelf) 
Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 
Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 


And  happier  than  I,  alas ! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 

’T  will  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass, 
And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 


IN  ENGLISH 


75 


IX 

TO  K.  de  M. 

A  LOVER  of  the  moorland  bare, 

And  honest  country  winds  you  were; 
The  silver-skimming  rain  you  took; 

And  loved  the  floodings  of  the  brook, 

Dew,  frost  and  mountains,  fire  and  seas, 
Tumultuary  silences, 

Winds  that  in  darkness  fifed  a  tune, 

And  the  high-riding,  virgin  moon. 

And  as  the  berry,  pale  and  sharp, 

Springs  on  some  ditch’s  counterscarp 
In  our  ungenial,  native  north — 

You  put  your  frosted  wildings  forth, 

And  on  the  heath,  afar  from  man, 

A  strong  and  bitter  virgin  ran. 

The  berry  ripened  keeps  the  rude 
And  racy  flavour  of  the  wood. 

And  you  that  loved  the  empty  plain 
All  redolent  of  wind  and  rain. 

Around  you  still  the  curlew  sings — 

The  freshness  of  the  weather  clings — 

The  maiden  jewels  of  the  rain 
Sit  in  your  dabbled  locks  again. 


76 


UNDERWOODS 


X 

TO  N.  V.  de  G.  S. 

THE  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and  tears. 
The  deeds  of  heroes  and  the  crimes  of  kings 
Dispart  us;  and  the  river  of  events 
Has,  for  an  age  of  years,  to  east  and  west 
More  widely  borne  our  cradles.  Thou  to  me 
Art  foreign,  as  when  seamen  at  the  dawn 
Descry  a  land  far  off  and  know  not  which. 

So  I  approach  uncertain;  so  I  cruise 
Round  thy  mysterious  islet,  and  behold 
Surf  and  great  mountains  and  loud  river-bars, 

And  from  the  shore  hear  inland  voices  call. 
Strange  is  the  seaman’s  heart;  he  hopes,  he  fears; 
Draws  closer  and  sweeps  wider  from  that  coast; 
Last,  his  rent  sail  refits,  and  to  the  deep 
His  shattered  prow  uncomforted  puts  back. 

Yet  as  he  goes  he  ponders  at  the  helm 
Of  that  bright  island;  where  he  feared  to  touch, 
His  spirit  re-adventures;  and  for  years, 

Where  by  his  wife  he  slumbers  safe  at  home, 
Thoughts  of  that  land  revisit  him;  he  sees 
The  eternal  mountains  beckon,  and  awakes 
Yearning  for  that  far  home  that  might  have  been. 


IN  ENGLISH 


77 


XI 

TO  WILL  H.  LOW 

YOUTH  now  flees  on  feathered  foot. 

Faint  and  fainter  sounds  the  flute, 
Rarer  songs  of  gods;  and  still 
Somewhere  on  the  sunny  hill, 

Or  along  the  winding  stream, 

Through  the  willows  flits  a  dream; 

Flits,  but  shows  a  smiling  face. 

Flees,  but  with  so  quaint  a  grace, 

None  can  choose  to  stay  at  home, 

All  must  follow,  all  must  roam. 

This  is  unborn  beauty:  she 
Now  in  air  floats  high  and  free, 

Takes  the  sun  and  breaks  the  blue; — 
Late  with  stooping  pinion  flew 
Raking  hedgerow  trees,  and  wet 
Her  wing  in  silver  streams,  and  set 
Shining  foot  on  temple  roof: 

Now  again  she  flies  aloof, 

Coasting  mountain  clouds  and  kiss’t 
By  the  evening’s  amethyst. 

In  wet  wood  and  mirv  lane, 

Still  we  pant  and  pound  in  vain; 

Still  with  leaden  foot  we  chase 
Waning  pinion,  fainting  face; 

Still  with  grey  hair  we  stumble  on, 

Till,  behold,  the  vision  gone ! 


78 


UNDERWOODS 


Where  hath  fleeting  beauty  led? 
To  the  doorway  of  the  dead. 

Life  is  over,  life  was  gay: 

We  have  come  the  primrose  way. 


XII 

TO  MRS.  WILL  H.  LOW 

EVEN  in  the  bluest  noonday  of  July 

There  could  not  run  the  smallest  breath  of  wind 
But  all  the  quarter  sounded  like  a  wood; 
x\nd  in  the  chequered  silence,  and  above 
The  hum  of  city  cabs  that  sought  the  Bois, 

Suburban  ashes  shivered  into  song. 

A  patter  and  a  chatter  and  a  chirp 
And  a  long  dying  hiss — it  was  as  though 
Starched  old  brocaded  dames  through  all  the  house 
Had  trailed  a  strident  skirt,  or  the  whole  sky 
Even  in  a  wink  had  over-brimmed  in  rain. 

Hark,  in  these  shady  parlours,  how  it  talks 
Of  the  near  autumn,  how  the  smitten  ash 
Trembles  and  augurs  floods !  O  not  too  long 
In  these  inconstant  latitudes  delay, 

O  not  too  late  from  the  unbeloved  north 
Trim  your  escape !  For  soon  shall  this  low  roof 
Resound  indeed  with  rain,  soon  shall  your  eyes 
Search  the  foul  garden,  search  the  darkened  rooms. 
Nor  find  one  jewel  but  the  blazing  log. 

12  Rue  Vernier,  Paris. 


IN  ENGLISH 


79 


XIII 

TO  H.  F.  BROWN 

(written  during  a  dangerous  sickness) 

I  SIT  and  wait  a  pair  of  oars 
On  cis-Elysian  river-shores. 

Where  the  immortal  dead  have  sate, 

’T  is  mine  to  sit  and  meditate; 

To  re-ascend  life’s  rivulet. 

Without  remorse,  without  regret; 

And  sing  my  Alma  Genetrix 
Among  the  willows  of  the  Styx. 

And  lo,  as  my  serener  soul 
Did  these  unhappy  shores  patrol, 

And  wait  with  an  attentive  ear 
The  coming  of  the  gondolier. 

Your  fire-surviving  roll  I  took, 

Your  spirited  and  happy  book;1 
Whereon,  despite  my  frowning  fate. 

It  did  my  soul  so  recreate 
That  all  my  fancies  fled  away 
On  a  Venetian  holiday. 

Now,  thanks  to  your  triumphant  care, 

Your  pages  clear  as  April  air, 

The  sails,  the  bells,  the  birds,  I  know, 

And  the  far-off  Friulan  snow; 

The  land  and  sea,  the  sun  and  shade, 

And  the  blue  even  lamp-inlaid. 

1  Life  on  the  Lagoons,  by  H.  F.  Brown,  originally  burned  in  the  fire 
at  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co’s. 


80 


UNDERWOODS 


For  this,  for  these,  for  all,  O  friend, 

For  your  whole  book  from  end  to  end — 
For  Paron  Piero’s  mutton-ham — 

I  your  defaulting  debtor  am. 

Perchance,  reviving,  yet  may  I 
To  your  sea-pa ven  city  hie. 

And  in  a  felze ,  some  day  yet 
Light  at  your  pipe  my  cigarette. 


XIV 

TO  ANDREW  LANG 

DEAR  Andrew,  with  the  brindled  hair, 
Who  glory  to  have  thrown  in  air, 
High  over  arm,  the  trembling  reed, 

By  Ale  and  Kail,  by  Till  and  Tweed: 

An  equal  craft  of  hand  you  show 
The  pen  to  guide,  the  fly  to  throw: 

I  count  you  happy-starred;  for  God, 

When  He  with  inkpot  and  with  rod 
Endowed  you,  bade  your  fortune  lead 
For  ever  by  the  crooks  of  Tweed, 

For  ever  by  the  woods  of  song 
And  lands  that  to  the  Muse  belong; 

Or  if  in  peopled  streets,  or  in 
The  abhorred  pedantic  sanhedrin. 

It  should  be  yours  to  wander,  still 
Airs  of  the  morn,  airs  of  the  hill, 

The  plovery  Forest  and  the  seas 
That  break  about  the  Hebrides, 

Should  follow  over  field  and  plain 


IN  ENGLISH 


81 


And  find  you  at  the  window-pane; 

And  you  again  see  hill  and  peel, 

And  the  bright  springs  gush  at  your  heel. 
So  went  the  fiat  forth,  and  so 
Garrulous  like  a  brook  you  go, 

With  sound  of  happy  mirth  and  sheen 
Of  daylight — whether  by  the  green 
You  fare  that  moment,  or  the  grey; 
Whether  you  dwell  in  March  or  May; 

Or  whether  treat  of  reels  and  rods 
Or  of  the  old  unhappy  gods: 

Still  like  a  brook  your  page  has  shone, 
And  your  ink  sings  of  Helicon. 


XV 

ET  TU  IN  ARCADIA  VIXISTI 
(to  r.  a.  m.  s.1) 

IN  ancient  tales,  O  friend,  thy  spirit  dwelt; 

There,  from  of  old,  thy  childhood  passed;  and  there 
High  expectation,  high  delights  and  deeds. 

Thy  fluttering  heart  with  hope  and  terror  moved. 

And  thou  hast  heard  of  yore  the  Blatant  Beast, 

And  Roland’s  horn,  and  that  war-scattering  shout 
Of  all-unarmed  Achilles,  eegis-crowned. 

And  perilous  lands  thou  sawest,  sounding  shores 
And  seas  and  forests  drear,  island  and  dale 
And  mountain  dark.  For  thou  with  Tristram  rod’st 
Or  Bedevere,  in  farthest  Lyonesse. 

Thou  hadst  a  booth  in  Samarcand,  whereat 

1  Stevenson’s  cousin,  Robert  A.  M.  Stevenson. 


UNDERWOODS 


82 

Side-looking  Magians  trafficked;  thence,  by  night, 
An  Afreet  snatched  thee,  and  with  wings  upbore 
Beyond  the  Aral  mount;  or,  hoping  gain, 

Thou,  with  a  jar  of  money,  didst  embark. 

For  Balsorah  by  sea.  But  chiefly  thou 
In  that  clear  air  took’st  life;  in  Arcady 
The  haunted,  land  of  song;  and  by  the  wells 
Where  most  the  gods  frequent.  There  Chiron  old, 
In  the  Pelethronian  antre,  taught  thee  lore: 

The  plants  he  taught,  and  by  the  shining  stars 
In  forests  dim  to  steer.  There  hast  thou  seen 
Immortal  Pan  dance  secret  in  a  glade, 

And,  dancing,  roll  his  eyes;  these,  where  they  fell. 
Shed  glee,  and  through  the  congregated  oaks 
A  flying  horror  winged;  while  all  the  earth 
To  the  god’s  pregnant  footing  thrilled  within. 

Or  whiles,  beside  the  sobbing  stream,  he  breathed, 
In  his  clutched  pipe,  unformed  and  wizard  strains. 
Divine  yet  brutal;  which  the  forest  heard, 

And  thou,  with  awe;  and  far  upon  the  plain 
The  unthinking  ploughman  started  and  gave  ear. 
Now  things  there  are  that,  upon  him  who  sees, 

A  strong  vocation  lay;  and  strains  there  are 
That  whoso  hears  shall  hear  for  evermore. 

For  evermore  thou  hear’st  immortal  Pan 
And  those  melodious  godheads,  ever  young 
And  ever  quiring,  on  the  mountains  old. 

What  was  this  earth,  child  of  the  gods,  to  thee? 
Forth  from  thy  dreamland  thou,  a  dreamer,  cam’st, 
And  in  thine  ears  the  olden  music  rang, 

And  in  thy  mind  the  doings  of  the  dead. 

And  those  heroic  ages  long  forgot. 


IN  ENGLISH 


83 


To  a  so  fallen  earth,  alas !  too  late, 

Alas !  in  evil  days,  thy  steps  return, 

To  list  at  noon  for  nightingales,  to  groAv 
A  dweller  on  the  beach  till  Argo  come 
That  came  long  since,  a  lingerer  by  the  pool 
Where  that  desired  angel  bathes  no  more. 

As  when  the  Indian  to  Dakota  comes, 

Or  farthest  Idaho,  and  where  he  dwelt. 

He  with  his  clan,  a  humming  city  finds; 

Thereon  a  while,  amazed,  he  stares,  and  then 
To  right  and  leftward,  like  a  questing  dog, 

Seeks  first  the  ancestral  altars,  then  the  hearth 
Long  cold  with  rains,  and  where  old  terror  lodged, 

And  where  the  dead.  So  thee  undying  Hope, 

With  all  her  pack,  hunts  screaming  through  the  years: 
Here,  there,  thou  fleeest;  but  nor  here  nor  there 
The  pleasant  gods  abide,  the  glory  dwells. 

That,  that  was  not  Apollo,  not  the  god. 

This  was  not  Venus,  though  she  Venus  seemed 
A  moment.  And  though  fair  yon  river  move. 

She,  all  the  way,  from  disenchanted  fount 
To  seas  unhallowed  runs;  the  gods  forsook 
Long  since  her  trembling  rushes;  from  her  plains 
Disconsolate,  long  since  adventure  fled; 

And  now  although  the  inviting  river  flows, 

And  every  poplared  cape,  and  every  bend 
Or  willowy  islet,  win  upon  thy  soul 
And  to  thy  hopeful  shallop  whisper  speed; 

Yet  hope  not  thou  at  all;  hope  is  no  more; 

And  O,  long  since  the  golden  groves  are  dead, 

The  faery  cities  vanished  from  the  land ! 


84 


UNDERWOODS 


XVI 

TO  W.  E.  HENLEY 

THE  year  runs  through  her  phases;  rain  and  sun, 
Spring-time  and  summer  pass;  winter  succeeds; 
But  one  pale  season  rules  the  house  of  death. 

Cold  falls  the  imprisoned  daylight;  fell  disease 
By  each  lean  pallet  squats,  and  pain  and  sleep 
Toss  gaping  on  the  pillows. 


But  O  thou ! 

Uprise  and  take  thy  pipe.  Bid  music  flow, 

Strains  by  good  thoughts  attended,  like  the  spring 
The  swallows  follow  over  land  and  sea. 

Pain  sleeps  at  once;  at  once,  with  open  eyes, 
Dozing  despair  awakes.  The  shepherd  sees 
His  flock  come  bleating  home;  the  seaman  hears 
Once  more  the  cordage  rattle.  Airs  of  home ! 
Youth,  love,  and  roses  blossom;  the  gaunt  ward 
Dislimns  and  disappears,  and,  opening  out. 

Shows  brooks  and  forests,  and  the  blue  beyond 
Of  mountains. 


Small  the  pipe;  but  O !  do  thou, 
Peak-faced  and  suffering  piper,  blow  therein 
The  dirge  of  heroes  dead;  and  to  these  sick, 
These  dying,  sound  the  triumph  over  death. 
Behold !  each  greatly  breathes;  each  tastes  a  joy 
Unknown  before,  in  dying;  for  each  knows 
A  hero  dies  with  him — though  unfulfilled, 

Yet  conquering  truly — and  not  dies  in  vain. 


IN  ENGLISH 


85 


So  is  pain  cheered,  death  comforted;  the  house 
Of  sorrow  smiles  to  listen.  Once  again — 

O  thou,  Orpheus  and  Heracles,  the  bard 
And  the  deliverer,  touch  the  stops  again ! 


XVII 

HENRY  JAMES 


WHO  comes  to-night?  We  ope  the  doors  in  vain. 

Who  comes?  My  bursting  walls,  can  you  contain 
The  presences  that  now  together  throng 
Your  narrow  entry,  as  with  flowers  and  song. 

As  with  the  air  of  life,  the  breath  of  talk? 

Lo,  how  these  fair  immaculate  women  walk 
Behind  their  jocund  maker;  and  we  see 
Slighted  De  Mauves ,  and  that  far  different  she, 

Gressie,  the  trivial  sphynx;  and  to  our  feast 
Daisy  and  Barb  and  Chancellor  (she  not  least !) 

With  all  their  silken,  all  their  airy  kin. 

Do  like  unbidden  angels  enter  in. 

But  he,  attended  by  these  shining  names, 

Comes  (best  of  all)  himself — our  welcome  James. 


UNDERWOODS 

XVIII 

THE  MIRROR  SPEAKS 


HERE  the  bells  peal  far  at  sea 


▼  ▼  Cunning  fingers  fashioned  me. 
There  on  palace  walls  I  hung 
While  that  Consuelo  sung; 

But  I  heard,  though  I  listened  well, 
Never  a  note,  never  a  trill, 

Never  a  beat  of  the  chiming  bell. 
There  I  hung  and  looked,  and  there 
In  my  grey  face,  faces  fair 
Shone  from  under  shining  hair. 

Well  I  saw  the  poising  head, 

But  the  lips  moved  and  nothing  said; 
And  when  lights  were  in  the  hall, 
Silent  moved  the  dancers  all. 

So  a  while  I  glowed,  and  then 
Fell  on  dusty  days  and  men; 

Long  I  slumbered  packed  in  straw. 
Long  I  none  but  dealers  saw; 

Till  before  my  silent  eye 
One  that  sees  came  passing  by. 

Now  with  an  outlandish  grace. 

To  the  sparkling  fire  I  face 
In  the  blue  room  at  Skerry vore; 
Where  I  wait  until  the  door 
Open,  and  the  Prince  of  Men, 

Henry  James,  shall  come  again. 


IN  ENGLISH 


87 


XIX 


KATHARINE 


WE  see  you  as  we  see  a  face 

That  trembles  in  a  forest  place 
Upon  the  mirror  of  a  pool 
For  ever  quiet,  clear  and  cool; 

And  in  the  wayward  glass,  appears 
To  hover  between  smiles  and  tears, 
Elfin  and  human,  airy  and  true, 

And  backed  by  the  reflected  blue. 


XX 

TO  F.  J.  S. 

I  READ,  dear  friend,  in  your  dear  face 
Your  life’s  tale  told  with  perfect  grace; 
The  river  of  your  life  I  trace 
Up  the  sun-chequered,  devious  bed 
To  the  far-distant  fountain-head. 

Not  one  quick  beat  of  your  warm  heart, 

Nor  thought  that  came  to  you  apart, 

Pleasure  nor  pity,  love  nor  pain 
Nor  sorrow,  has  gone  by  in  vain; 

But  as  some  lone,  wood-wandering  child 
Brings  home  with  him  at  evening  mild 
The  thorns  and  flowers  of  all  the  wild, 

From  your  whole  life,  O  fair  and  true 
Your  flowers  and  thorns  you  bring  with  you  ! 


88 


UNDERWOODS 


XXI 


REQUIEM 


UNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 


This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  lie  lies  xvhere  he  longed  to  be , 
Home  is  the  sailor ,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


XXII 

THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON 

IF  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 

If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 

If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies. 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain: — 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 

Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 

Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 

A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 

And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in ! 


IN  ENGLISH 


89 


XXIII 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

OUT  of  the  sun,  out  of  the  blast, 

Out  of  the  world,  alone  I  passed 
Across  the  moor  and  through  the  wood 
To  where  the  monastery  stood. 

There  neither  lute  nor  breathing  fife, 
Nor  rumour  of  the  world  of  life, 

Nor  confidences  low  and  dear, 

Shall  strike  the  meditative  ear. 

Aloof,  unhelpful,  and  unkind. 

The  prisoners  of  the  iron  mind, 

Where  nothing  speaks  except  the  bell 
The  unfraternal  brothers  dwell. 

Poor  passionate  men,  still  clothed  afresh 
With  agonising  folds  of  flesh; 

Whom  the  clear  eyes  solicit  still 
To  some  bold  output  of  the  will, 

While  fairy  Fancy  far  before 
And  musing  Memory-Hold-the-door 
Now  to  heroic  death  invite 
And  now  uncurtain  fresh  delight: 

O,  little  boots  it  thus  to  dwell 
On  the  remote  unneighboured  hill ! 

O  to  be  up  and  doing,  O 
Unfearing  and  unshamed  to  go 
In  all  the  uproar  and  the  press 
About  my  human  business ! 


90 


UNDERWOODS 


My  undissuaded  heart  I  hear 
Whisper  courage  in  my  ear. 

With  voiceless  calls,  the  ancient  earth 
Summons  me  to  a  daily  birth. 

Thou,  O  my  love,  ye,  O  my  friends — 
The  gist  of  life,  the  end  of  ends — 

To  laugh,  to  love,  to  live,  to  die. 

Ye  call  me  by  the  ear  and  eye ! 

Forth  from  the  casemate,  on  the  plain 
Where  honour  has  the  world  to  gain, 
Pour  forth  and  bravely  do  your  part, 

O  knights  of  the  unshielded  heart ! 

Forth  and  for  ever  forward ! — out 
From  prudent  turret  and  redoubt. 

And  in  the  mellay  charge  amain, 

To  fall  but  yet  to  rise  again ! 

Captive  ?  ah,  still,  to  honour  bright, 

A  captive  soldier  of  the  right ! 

Or  free  and  fighting,  good  with  ill  ? 
Unconquering  but  unconquered  still ! 

And  ye,  O  brethren,  what  if  God, 

When  from  Heav’n’s  top  he  spies  abroad, 
And  sees  on  this  tormented  stage 
The  noble  war  of  mankind  rage: 

What  if  his  vivifying  eye, 

O  monks,  should  pass  your  corner  by  ? 
For  still  the  Lord  is  Lord  of  might; 

In  deeds,  in  deeds,  he  takes  delight; 

The  plough,  the  spear,  the  laden  barks. 
The  field,  the  founded  city,  marks; 


IN  ENGLISH 


91 


He  marks  the  smiler  of  the  streets, 

The  singer  upon  garden  seats; 

He  sees  the  climber  in  the  rocks; 

To  him,  the  shepherd  folds  his  flocks. 

For  those  he  loves  that  underprop 
With  daily  virtues  Heaven’s  top, 

And  bear  the  falling  sky  with  ease. 

Unfrowning  caryatides. 

Those  he  approves  that  ply  the  trade, 

That  rock  the  child,  that  wed  the  maid, 

That  with  weak  virtues,  weaker  hands, 

Sow  gladness  on  the  peopled  lands, 

And  still  with  laughter,  song  and  shout, 

Spin  the  great  wheel  of  earth  about. 

But  ye  ? — 0  ye  who  linger  still 
Here  in  your  fortress  on  the  hill. 

With  placid  face,  with  tranquil  breath, 

The  unsought  volunteers  of  death, 

Our  cheerful  General  on  high 
With  careless  looks  may  pass  you  by. 

XXIV 

NOT  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert, 

Where  thou  with  grass,  and  rivers,  and  the  breeze 
And  the  bright  face  of  day,  thy  dalliance  hadst; 

Where  to  thine  ear  first  sang  the  enraptured  birds; 
Where  love  and  thou  that  lasting  bargain  made. 

The  ship  rides  trimmed,  and  from  the  eternal  shore 
Thou  hearest  airy  voices;  but  not  yet 
Depart,  my  soul,  not  yet  a  while  depart. 


92 


UNDERWOODS 


Freedom  is  far,  rest  far.  Thou  art  with  life 
Too  closely  woven,  nerve  with  nerve  entwdned; 
Service  still  craving  service,  love  for  love. 

Love  for  dear  love,  still  suppliant  with  tears. 

Alas,  not  yet  thy  human  task  is  done ! 

A  bond  at  birth  is  forged;  a  debt  doth  lie 
Immortal  on  mortality.  It  grows — 

By  vast  rebound  it  grows,  unceasing  growth; 

Gift  upon  gift,  alms  upon  alms,  upreared, 

From  man,  from  God,  from  nature,  till  the  soul 
At  that  so  huge  indulgence  stands  amazed. 

Leave  not,  my  soul,  the  unfoughten  field,  nor  leave 
Thy  debts  dishonoured,  nor  thy  place  desert 
Without  due  service  rendered.  For  thy  life, 

Up,  spirit,  and  defend  that  fort  of  clay, 

Thy  body,  now  beleaguered;  whether  soon 
Or  late  she  fall;  whether  to-day  thy  friends 
Bewail  thee  dead,  or,  after  years,  a  man 
Grown  old  in  honour  and  the  friend  of  peace, 
Contend,  my  soul,  for  moments  and  for  hours; 
Each  is  with  service  pregnant;  each  reclaimed 
Is  as  a  kingdom  conquered,  where  to  reign. 

As  when  a  captain  rallies  to  the  fight 
His  scattered  legions,  and  beats  ruin  back. 

He,  on  the  field,  encamps,  well  pleased  in  mind. 

Yet  surely  him  shall  fortune  overtake, 

Him  smite  in  turn,  headlong  his  ensigns  drive; 

And  that  dear  land,  now  safe,  to-morrow  fall. 

But  he,  unthinking,  in  the  present  good 
Solely  delights,  and  all  the  camps  rejoice. 


IN  ENGLISH 


93 


XXV 

IT  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain. 

Not,  mother,  yours  to  weep, 

Though  nevermore  your  son  again 
Shall  to  your  bosom  creep, 

Though  nevermore  again  you  watch  your  baby  sleep. 

Though  in  the  greener  paths  of  earth, 

Mother  and  child,  no  more 
We  wander;  and  no  more  the  birth 
Of  me  whom  once  you  bore 

Seems  still  the  brave  reward  that  once  it  seemed  of 
yore; 

Though  as  all  passes,  day  and  night. 

The  seasons  and  the  years, 

From  you,  O  mother,  this  delight, 

This  also  disappears — 

Some  profit  yet  survives  of  all  your  pangs  and  tears. 

The  child,  the  seed,  the  grain  of  corn, 

The  acorn  on  the  hill. 

Each  for  some  separate  end  is  born 
In  season  fit,  and  still 

Each  must  in  strength  arise  to  work  the  almighty  will. 

So  from  the  hearth  the  children  flee, 

By  that  almighty  hand 
Austerely  led;  so  one  by  sea 
Goes  forth,  and  one  by  land; 

Nor  aught  of  all  man’s  sons  escapes  from  that  com¬ 
mand. 


94 


UNDERWOODS 


So  from  the  sally  each  obeys 
The  unseen  almighty  nod; 

So  till  the  ending  all  their  ways 
Blindfolded  loth  have  trod: 

Nor  knew  their  task  at  all,  but  were  the  tools  of  God. 

And  as  the  fervent  smith  of  yore 
Beat  out  the  glowing  blade, 

Nor  wielded  in  the  front  of  war 
The  weapons  that  he  made, 

But  in  the  tower  at  home  still  plied  his  ringing  trade; 

So  like  a  sword  the  son  shall  roam 
On  nobler  missions  sent; 

And  as  the  smith  remained  at  home 
In  peaceful  turret  pent, 

So  sits  the  while  at  home  the  mother  well  content. 


XXVI 


Child. 


THE  SICK  CHILD 

O  MOTHER,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow ! 

O  mother,  mother,  where  am  I  now? 
Why  is  the  room  so  gaunt  and  great? 

Why  am  I  lying  awake  so  late? 


Mother.  Fear  not  at  all:  the  night  is  still. 

Nothing  is  here  that  means  you  ill — 
Nothing  but  lamps  the  whole  town  through. 
And  never  a  child  awake  but  you. 


IN  ENGLISH 


95 


Child.  Mother,  mother,  speak  low  in  my  ear, 

Some  of  the  things  are  so  great  and  near, 
Some  are  so  small  and  far  away, 

I  have  a  fear  that  I  cannot  say. 

What  have  I  done,  and  what  do  I  fear. 

And  why  are  you  crying,  mother  dear? 

Mother.  Out  in  the  city,  sounds  begin; 

Thank  the  kind  God,  the  carts  come  in ! 

An  hour  or  two  more,  and  God  is  so  kind, 

The  day  shall  be  blue  in  the  window-blind, 
Then  shall  my  child  go  sweetly  asleep, 

And  dream  of  the  birds  and  the  hills  of  sheep. 


XXVII 


IN  MEMORIAM  F.  A.  S. 


YET,  O  stricken  heart,  remember,  O  remember 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 
April  came  to  bloom  and  never  dim  December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head  or  heart. 


Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring,  a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  April  blithely  for  a  while, 

Took  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing, 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  nor  ever  ceased  to  smile. 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  and  now  when  all  is  finished, 
You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy  stream, 

Yours  the  pang,  but  his,  O  his,  the  undiminished 
Undecaying  gladness,  undeparted  dream. 


96 


UNDERWOODS 


All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and  treason, 
Shame,  dishonour,  death,  to  him  were  but  a  name. 
Here,  a  boy,  he  dwelt  through  all  the  singing  season, 
And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he  came. 

Davos,  1881. 


XXVIII 

TO  MY  FATHER 

PEACE  and  her  huge  invasion  to  these  shores 
Puts  daily  home;  innumerable  sails 
Dawn  on  the  far  horizon  and  draw  near; 
Innumerable  loves,  uncounted  hopes 
To  our  wild  coasts,  not  darkling  now,  approach: 
Not  now  obscure,  since  thou  and  thine  are  there. 
And  bright  on  the  lone  isle,  the  foundered  reef, 
The  long,  resounding  foreland,  Pharos  stands. 

These  are  thy  works,  O  father,  these  thy  crown; 
Whether  on  high  the  air  be  pure,  they  shine 
Along  the  yellowing  sunset,  and  all  night 
Among  the  unnumbered  stars  of  God  they  shine; 
Or  whether  fogs  arise  and  far  and  wide 
The  low  sea-level  drown — each  finds  a  tongue 
And  all  night  long  the  tolling  bell  resounds: 

So  shine,  so  toll,  till  night  be  overpast. 

Till  the  stars  vanish,  till  the  sun  return. 

And  in  the  haven  rides  the  fleet  secure. 


IN  ENGLISH 


97 


In  the  first  hour,  the  seaman  in  his  skiff 
Moves  through  the  unmoving  bay,  to  where  the  town 
Its  earliest  smoke  into  the  air  upbreathes 
And  the  rough  hazels  climb  along  the  beach. 

To  the  tugg’d  oar  the  distant  echo  speaks. 

The  ship  lies  resting,  where  by  reef  and  roost 
Thou  and  thy  lights  have  led  her  like  a  child. 

This  hast  thou  done,  and  I — can  I  be  base? 

I  must  arise,  O  father,  and  to  port 
Some  lost,  complaining  seaman  pilot  home. 


XXIX 


IN  THE  STATES 


WITH  half  a  heart  I  wander  here 
As  from  an  age  gone  by 
A  brother — yet  though  young  in  years, 
An  elder  brother,  I. 


You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine. 
Though  both  were  English  born. 

I  towards  the  night  of  time  decline 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 


Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free. 
But  age  must  still  decay: 

To-morrow  for  the  States, — for  me, 

England  and  Yesterday. 


San  Francisco. 


98 


UNDERWOODS 


XXX 

A  PORTRAIT 

I  AM  a  kind  of  farthing  dip, 

Unfriendly  to  the  nose  and  eyes; 

A  blue-behinded  ape,  I  skip 
Upon  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

At  mankind’s  feast,  I  take  my  place 
In  solemn,  sanctimonious  state, 

And  have  the  air  of  saying  grace 
While  I  defile  the  dinner-plate. 

I  am  “the  smiler  with  the  knife,” 

The  battener  upon  garbage,  I — 

Dear  Heaven,  with  such  a  rancid  life, 
Were  it  not  better  far  to  die? 

Yet  still,  about  the  human  pale, 

I  love  to  scamper,  love  to  race. 

To  swing  by  my  irreverent  tail 
All  over  the  most  holy  place; 

And  when  at  length,  some  golden  day. 
The  unfailing  sportsman,  aiming  at. 
Shall  bag  me — all  the  world  shall  say: 
Thank  God ,  and  there's  an  end  of  that! 


IN  ENGLISH 


99 


XXXI 


SING  clearlier,  Muse,  or  evermore  be  still. 
Sing  truer  or  no  longer  sing ! 

No  more  the  voice  of  melancholy  Jaques 
To  wake  a  weeping  echo  in  the  hill; 

But  as  the  boy,  the  pirate  of  the  spring, 
From  the  green  elm  a  living  linnet  takes, 
One  natural  verse  recapture — then  be  still. 


XXXII 


A  CAMP1 


THE  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit; 
The  air  was  still,  the  water  ran, 

No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  man, 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 

At  God’s  green  caravanserai. 


XXXIII 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE 
CAMISARDS1 


WE  travelled  in  the  print  of  olden  wars, 
Yet  all  the  land  was  green, 

And  love  we  found,  and  peace, 

Where  fire  and  war  had  been. 


1  From  Travels  with  a  Donkey . 


100 


UNDERWOODS 


They  pass  and  smile,  the  children  of  the  sword — 
No  more  the  sword  they  wield; 

And  O,  how  deep  the  corn 
Along  the  battle-field ! 


XXXIV 

SKERRYVORE 


FOR  love  of  lovely  words,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  those,  my  kinsmen  and  my  countrymen, 
Who  early  and  late  in  the  windy  ocean  toiled 
To  plant  a  star  for  seamen,  where  was  then 
The  surfy  haunt  of  seals  and  cormorants: 

I,  on  the  lintel  of  this  cot,  inscribe 
The  name  of  a  strong  tower. 


XXXV 

SKERRYVORE: 

THE  PARALLEL 

HERE  all  is  sunny,  and  when  the  truant  gull 
Skims  the  green  level  of  the  lawn,  his  wing 
Dispetals  roses;  here  the  house  is  framed 
Of  kneaded  brick  and  the  plumed  mountain  pine, 
Such  clay  as  artists  fashion  and  such  wood 
As  the  tree-climbing  urchin  breaks.  But  there 
Eternal  granite  hewn  from  the  living  isle 
And  dowelled  with  brute  iron,  rears  a  tower 
That  from  its  wet  foundation  to  its  crown 
Of  glittering  glass,  stands,  in  the  sweep  of  winds, 
Immovable,  immortal,  eminent. 


IN  ENGLISH 


101 


xxxvi 

house ,  I  say.  But  hark  to  the  sunny  doves 
^  That  make  my  roof  the  arena  of  their  loves, 
That  gyre  about  the  gable  all  day  long 
And  fill  the  chimneys  with  their  murmurous  song: 
Our  house ,  they  say;  and  mine ,  the  cat  declares 
And  spreads  his  golden  fleece  upon  the  chairs; 

And  mine  the  dog,  and  rises  stiff  with  wrath 
If  any  alien  foot  profane  the  path. 

So,  too,  the  buck  that  trimmed  my  terraces, 

Our  whilome  gardener,  called  the  garden  his; 

Who  now,  deposed,  surveys  my  plain  abode 
And  his  late  kingdom,  only  from  the  road. 


XXXVII 


MY  body  which  my  dungeon  is, 

And  yet  my  parks  and  palaces: — 
Which  is  so  great  that  there  I  go 
All  the  day  long  to  and  fro, 

And  when  the  night  begins  to  fall 
Throw  down  my  bed  and  sleep,  while  all 
The  building  hums  with  wakefulness — 
Even  as  a  child  of  savages 
When  evening  takes  her  on  her  way, 

(She  having  roamed  a  summer’s  day 
Along  the  mountain-sides  and  scalp) 
Sleeps  in  an  antre  of  that  alp: — 

Which  is  so  broad  and  high  that  there, 
As  in  the  topless  fields  of  air. 

My  fancy  soars  like  to  a  kite 
And  faints  in  the  blue  infinite: — 


102 


UNDERWOODS 


Which  is  so  strong,  my  strongest  throes 
And  the  rough  world’s  besieging  blows 
Not  break  it,  and  so  weak  withal, 

Death  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  loose  wall 
As  the  green  sea  in  fishers’  nets, 

And  tops  its  topmost  parapets: — 

Which  is  so  wholly  mine  that  I 
Can  wield  its  whole  artillery. 

And  mine  so  little,  that  my  soul 
Dwells  in  perpetual  control, 

And  I  but  think  and  speak  and  do 
As  my  dead  fathers  move  me  to: — 

If  this  born  body  of  my  bones 
The  beggared  soul  so  barely  owns, 

What  money  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
What  creeping  custom  of  the  land, 

What  deed  of  author  or  assign, 

Can  make  a  house  a  thing  of  mine? 

XXXVIII 

SAY  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined 

The  labours  of  my  sires,  and  fled  the  sea. 
The  towers  we  founded  and  the  lamps  we  lit, 
To  play  at  home  with  paper  like  a  child. 

But  rather  say:  In  the  afternoon  of  time 
A  strenuous  family  dusted  from  its  hands 
The  sand  of  granite ,  and  beholding  far 
Along  the  sounding  coast  its  pyramids 
And  tall  memorials  catch  the  dying  sun , 

Smiled  well  content,  and  to  this  childish  task 
Around  the  fire  addressed  its  evening  hours. 


IN  ENGLISH 


103 


XXXIX 

DEDICATORY  POEM 

TO  her,  for  I  must  still  regard  her 
As  feminine  in  her  degree, 

Who  has  been  my  unkind  bombarder 
Year  after  year,  in  grief  and  glee, 

Year  after  year  with  oaken  tree; 

And  yet  between  whiles  my  laudator 
In  terms  astonishing  to  me — 

To  the  Right  Reverend  The  Spectator 
I  here,  a  humble  dedicator, 

Bring  the  last  apples  from  my  tree. 

In  tones  of  love,  in  tones  of  warning, 

She  hailed  me  through  my  brief  career; 
And  kiss  and  buffet,  night  and  morning, 
Told  me  my  grandmamma  was  near; 
Whether  she  praised  me  high  and  clear 
Through  her  unrivalled  circulation, 

Or,  sanctimonious  insincere. 

She  damned  me  with  a  misquotation — 

A  chequered  but  a  sweet  relation. 

Say,  was  it  not,  my  granny  dear? 

Believe  me,  granny,  altogether 
Yours,  though  perhaps  to  your  surprise. 

Oft  have  you  spruced  my  wounded  feather. 
Oft  brought  a  light  into  my  eyes — 

For  notice  still  the  writer  cries. 

In  any  civil  age  or  nation, 


104 


UNDERWOODS 

The  book  that  is  not  talked  of  dies. 
So  that  shall  be  my  termination: 
Whether  in  praise  or  execration, 
Still,  if  you  love  me,  criticise ! 


BOOK  II 


IN  SCOTS 


NOTE 


HTHE  human  conscience  has  fled  of  late  the  troublesome  do- 
main  of  conduct  for  what  I  should  have  supposed  to  be 
the  less  congenial  field  of  art:  there  she  may  now  be  said  to  rage, 
and  with  special  severity  in  all  that  touches  dialect;  so  that  in 
every  novel  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  are  tortured,  and  the 
reader  wearied,  to  commemorate  shades  of  mispronunciation. 
Now  spelling  is  an  art  of  great  difficulty  in  my  eyes,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  lean  upon  the  printer,  even  in  common  practice, 
rather  than  to  venture  abroad  upon  new  quests.  And  the  Scots 
tongue  has  an  orthography  of  its  own,  lacking  neither  “author¬ 
ity  nor  author.”  Yet  the  temptation  is  great  to  lend  a  little 
guidance  to  the  bewildered  Englishman.  Some  simple  phonetic 
artifice  might  defend  your  verses  from  barbarous  mishandling, 
and  yet  not  injure  any  vested  interest.  So  it  seems  at  first; 
but  there  are  rocks  ahead.  Thus,  if  I  wish  the  diphthong  ou 
to  have  its  proper  value,  I  may  write  oor  instead  of  our ;  many 
have  done  so  and  lived,  and  the  pillars  of  the  universe  remained 
unshaken.  But  if  I  did  so,  and  came  presently  to  doun,  which 
is  the  classical  Scots  spelling  of  the  English  down ,  I  should  be¬ 
gin  to  feel  uneasy;  and  if  I  went  on  a  little  farther,  and  came 
to  a  classical  Scots  word,  like  stour  or  dour  or  clour ,  I  should 
know  precisely  where  I  was — that  is  to  say,  that  I  was  out  of 
sight  of  land  on  those  high  seas  of  spelling  reform  in  which  so 
many  strong  swimmers  have  toiled  vainly.  To  some  the  situa¬ 
tion  is  exhilarating;  as  for  me,  I  give  one  bubbling  cry  and  sink. 
The  compromise  at  which  I  have  arrived  is  indefensible,  and 
I  have  no  thought  of  trying  to  defend  it.  As  I  have  stuck  for 
the  most  part  to  the  proper  spelling,  I  append  a  table  of  some 
common  vowel  sounds  which  no  one  need  consult;  and  just  to 
prove  that  I  belong  to  my  age  and  have  in  me  the  stuff  of  a  re¬ 
former,  I  have  used  modification  marks  throughout.  Thus  I 
can  tell  myself,  not  without  pride,  that  I  have  added  a  fresh 

106 


stumbling-block  for  English  readers,  and  to  a  page  of  print  in 
my  native  tongue,  have  lent  a  new  uncouthness.  Sed  non  nobis. 

I  note  again,  that  among  our  new  dialecticians,  the  local  hab¬ 
itat  of  every  dialect  is  given  to  the  square  mile.  I  could  not 
emulate  this  nicety  if  I  desired;  for  I  simply  wrote  my  Scots  as 
well  as  I  was  able,  not  caring  if  it  hailed  from  Lauderdale  or 
Angus,  from  the  Mearns  or  Galloway;  if  I  had  ever  heard  a  good 
word,  I  used  it  without  shame;  and  when  Scots  was  lacking,  or 
the  rhyme  jibbed,  I  was  glad  (like  my  betters)  to  fall  back  on 
English.  For  all  that,  I  own  to  a  friendly  feeling  for  the  tongue 
of  Fergusson  and  of  Sir  Walter,  both  Edinburgh  men;  and  I  con¬ 
fess  that  Burns  has  always  sounded  in  my  ear  like  something 
partly  foreign.  And  indeed  I  am  from  the  Lothians  myself;  it 
is  there  I  heard  the  language  spoken  about  my  childhood;  and 
it  is  in  the  drawding  Lothian  voice  that  I  repeat  it  to  myself. 
Let  the  precisians  call  my  speech  that  of  the  Lothians.  And  if 
it  be  not  pure,  alas  !  what  matters  it  ?  The  day  draws  near  when 
this  illustrious  and  malleable  tongue  shall  be  quite  forgotten; 
and  Burns’s  Ayrshire,  and  Dr.  MacDonald’s  Aberdeen-awa’, 
and  Scott’s  brave,  metropolitan  utterance  will  be  all  equally 
the  ghosts  of  speech.  Till  then  I  would  love  to  have  my  hour 
as  a  native  Maker,  and  be  read  by  my  own  countryfolk  in  our 
own  dying  language:  an  ambition  surely  rather  of  the  heart 
than  of  the  head,  so  restricted  as  it  is  in  prospect  of  endurance, 
so  parochial  in  bounds  of  space. 


107 


TABLE  OF  COMMON  SCOTTISH 
VOWEL  SOUNDS 


=  open  A  as  in  rare. 


=  AW  as  in  law. 


ea  =  open  E  as  in  mere,  but  this  with  exceptions,  as  heather  = 
heather,  wean  =  wain ,  lear=  lair. 
ee 

ei  =  open  E  as  in  mere. 
ie 

/ 

oa  =  open  O  as  in  more. 
ou  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 
ow  =  OW  as  in  bower. 
u  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 

ui  or  u  before  R  =  (say  roughly)  open  A  as  in  rare. 
ui  or  ii  before  any  other  consonant  =  (say  roughly)  close  I  as 
in  grin. 

y  =  open  I  as  in  kite. 

i  =  pretty  nearly  what  you  please,  much  as  in  English.  Heaven 
guide  the  reader  through  that  labyrinth !  But  in  Scots  it 
dodges  usually  from  the  short  I,  as  in  grin,  to  the  open  E, 
as  in  mere.  Find  and  blind,  I  may  remark,  are  pronounced 
to  rhyme  with  the  preterite  of  grin. 


108 


UNDERWOODS 

i 

THE  MAKER  TO  POSTERITY 

AR  ’yont  amang  the  years  to  be, 
When  a’  we  think,  an’  a’  we  see, 
An’  a’  we  luve,  ’s  been  dung  ajee 
By  time’s  rouch  shouther, 

An’  what  was  richt  and  wrang  for  me 
Lies  mangled  throu’ther. 

It’s  possible — it’s  hardly  mair — 

That  some  ane,  ripin’  after  lear — 

Some  auld  professor  or  young  heir. 

If  still  there’s  either — 

May  find  an’  read  me,  an’  be  sair 
Perplexed,  puir  brither ! 


“What  tongue  does  your  auld  boolde  speak?’’ 

ask 

He’ll  speir;  an’  I,  his  mou’  to  steik: 

close 

“No  bein’  fit  to  write  in  Greek , 

I  wrote  in  Lallan , 

Lowlands 

Dear  to  my  heart  as  the  peat-reek. 

smoke 

Auld  as  Tantallon. 

knocked 

aside 

shoulder 

all  together 

groping  after 
learning 


109 


110 


UNDERWOODS 


lost 


hill  to  climb 


maybe 


horse-flies 

staggers, 

loosened 


lease  of 
mankind 

very  low 


“Few  spak  it  then ,  an '  noo  there's  nane. 

My  puir  auld  sangs  lie  a '  their  lane , 

Their  sense ,  that  aince  was  hraw  an'  plain , 
Tint  a'thegither , 

Like  runes  upon  a  standin '  stane 
Amang  the  heather. 

“ But  think  not  you  the  hrae  to  speel; 

You ,  tae,  maun  chow  the  bitter  peel; 

For  a'  your  lear ,  for  a'  your  skeel> 

Ye're  nane  sae  lucky ; 

An'  things  are  mebbe  waur  than  weel 
For  you ,  my  buckie. 

“  The  hale  concern  ( baith  hens  an'  eggs > 

Baith  book  an'  writers ,  stars  an'  clegs ) 

Noo  stackers  upon  low  sent  legs , 

An'  wears  awa' ; 

The  tack  o'  mankind ,  near  the  dregs , 

Bins  unco  law. 

“  Your  book ,  that  in  some  braw>  new  tongue , 

Ye  wrote  or  pr entity  preached  or  sung , 

Will  still  be  just  a  bairn ,  an'  young 
In  fame  an'  years , 

Whan  the  hale  planet's  guts  are  dung 
About  your  ears  ; 


IN  SCOTS 

Ill 

“An’  you ,  sair  grumpin’  to  a  spar 

Or  whammled  wi ’  some  bleezin ’  star , 

Cryin’  to  ken  whaur  deil  ye  are> 

overturned 

Hame ,  France ,  or  Flanders — 

Whang  sindry  like  a  railway  car 

fly  as  under 

An’  flie  in  danders’ ’ 

cinders 

II 

ILLE  TERRARUM 

TT'RAE  nirly,  nippin’,  Eas’lan’  breeze, 
Erae  Nor  Ian’  snaw,  an’  haar  o’  seas, 

pinching 

fog 

Weel  happit  in  your  gairden  trees. 

A  bonny  bit, 

Atween  the  muckle  Pentland’s  knees, 

Secure  ye  sit. 

Beeches  an’  aiks  entwine  their  theek, 

oaks,  thatch 

An’  firs,  a  stench,  auld-f arrant  clique. 

A’  simmer  day,  your  chimleys  reek, 

staunch, 

old-fashioned 

Couthy  and  bien; 

comfortable 
and  well-to-do 

An’  here  an’  there  your  win  dies  keek 

Amang  the  green. 

A  pickle  plats  an’  paths  an’  posies, 

A  wheen  auld  gillyflowers  an’  roses: 

A  ring  o’  wa’s  the  hale  encloses 

few 

Frae  sheep  or  men; 

An’  there  the  auld  housie  beeks  an’  dozes. 

basks 

A’  by  her  lane. 

by  herself 

UNDERWOODS 


112 


bush 


tripping 


various, 

ticklish 


every 


The  gairdner  crooks  his  weary  back 

A’  day  in  the  pitaty-track. 

Or  mebbe  stops  a  while  to  crack 
Wi’  Jane  the  cook, 

Or  at  some  buss,  worm-eaten-black. 

To  gie  a  look. 

Frae  the  high  hills  the  curlew  ca’s; 

The  sheep  gang  baaing  by  the  was; 

Or  whiles  a  clan  o’  roosty  craws 
Cangle  thegither; 

The  wild  bees  seek  the  gairden  raws, 
Weariet  wi’  heather. 

Or  in  the  gloamin’  douce  an’  grey 

The  sweet-throat  mavis  tunes  her  lay; 

The  herd  comes  linkin’  doun  the  brae; 
An’  by  degrees 

The  muckle  siller  mime  maks  way 
Amang  the  trees. 

Here  aft  hae  I,  wi’  sober  heart. 

For  meditation  sat  apairt, 

When  orra  loves  or  kittle  art 
Perplexed  my  mind; 

Here  socht  a  balm  for  ilka  smart 
O’  humankind. 


cornered, 

alone 


Here  aft,  weel  neukit  by  my  lane, 

Wi’  Horace,  or  perhaps  Montaigne, 
The  mornin’  hours  hae  come  an’  gane 


IN  SCOTS 


113 


Abiine  my  heid — 

I  wadna  gi’en  a  chucky-stane 
For  a’  I’d  read. 

But  noo  the  auld  city,  street  by  street, 
An’  winter  fu’  o’  snaw  an’  sleet, 

A  while  shut  in  my  gangrel  feet 
An’  goavin’  mettle; 

Noo  is  the  soopit  ingle  sweet. 

An’  liltin’  kettle. 

An’  noo  the  winter  winds  complain; 
Cauld  lies  the  glaur  in  ilka  lane; 

On  draigled  hizzie,  tautit  wean, 

An’  drucken  lads, 

In  the  mirk  nicht,  the  winter  rain 
Dribbles  an’  blads. 

Whan  bugles  frae  the  Castle  rock, 

An’  beaten  drums  wi’  dowie  shock, 
Wauken,  at  cauld-rife  sax  o’clock. 

My  chit  term’  frame, 

I  mind  me  on  the  kintry  cock. 

The  kintry  hame. 

I  mind  me  on  yon  bonny  bield; 

An’  Fancy  traivels  far  afield 
To  gaither  a’  that  gairdens  yield 
O’  sun  an’  Simmer: 

To  hearten  up  a  dowie  chield. 

Fancy’s  the  limmer ! 


pebble 


vagrant 

roving 

swept  hearth 


mud,  every 

draggled 
wench, 
untidy  child 


doleful 

chilly 


shelter 


downcast  lad 
jade 


114 


UNDERWOODS 


build 


heels  over 
heads 


diligent 


stately 


III 


WHEN  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come, 

An’  birds  may  bigg  in  winter’s  lura, 
An’  pleesure’s  spreid  for  a’  and  some 
O’  whatna  state, 

Love,  wi’  her  auld  recruitin’  drum, 

Than  taks  the  gate. 


The  heart  plays  dunt  wi’  main  an’  micht; 
The  lasses’  een  are  a’  sae  bricht, 

Their  dresses  are  sae  braw  an’  ticht, 

The  bonny  birdies  ! — 

Puir  winter  virtue  at  the  sicht 
Gangs  heels  ower  hurdies. 

An’  aye  as  love  frae  land  to  land 
Tirls  the  drum  wi’  eident  hand, 

A’  men  collect  at  her  command, 
Toun-bred  or  land ’art. 

An’  follow  in  a  denty  band 
Her  gaucy  standart. 

An’  I,  wha  sang  o’  rain  an’  snaw. 

An’  weary  winter  weel  awa’, 

Noo  busk  me  in  a  jacket  braw. 

An’  tak  my  place 

I’  the  ram-stam,  harum-scarum  raw, 

Wi’  smilin’  face. 


IN  SCOTS 


115 


IV 

A  MILE  AN’  A  BITTOCK 


A  MILE  an’  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa, 
Abiine  the  burn,  ayont  the  law, 
Davie  an’  Donah  an’  Cherlie  an’  a’, 

An’  the  mime  was  shinin'  clearly ! 


Ane  went  hame  wi’  the  ither,  an’  then 
The  ither  went  hame  wi’  the  ither  twa  men. 
An’  baith  wad  return  him  the  service  again, 
An’  the  mime  was  shinin’  clearly ! 

The  clocks  were  chappin’  in  house  an’  ha’, 
Eleeven,  twal’  an’  ane  an’  twa; 

An’  the  guidman’s  face  was  turnt  to  the  wa’. 
An’  the  miine  was  shinin’  clearly ! 


A  wind  got  up  frae  affa  the  sea, 

It  blew  the  stars  as  dear’s  could  be. 

It  blew  in  the  een  of  a’  o’  the  three, 

An’  the  miine  was  shinin’  clearly ! 

Noo,  Davie  was  first  to  get  sleep  in  his  head, 

“The  best  o’  frien’s  maun  twine,”  he  said; 

\ 

“I’m  weariet,  an’  here  I’m  awa’  to  my  bed.” 
An’  the  miine  was  shinin’  clearly ! 

Twa  o’  them  walkin’  an’  crackin’  their  lane, 
The  mornin’  licht  cam  grey  an’  plain, — 

An’  the  birds  they  yammert  on  stick  an’  stane, 
An’  the  miine  was  shinin’  clearly ! 


hiii 


from  over 


part 


chirruped 


116 


UNDERWOODS 


shelter,  hill 


Lothian 

cawing 

low 


linnet 

rest 

saunters 

stretched 


O  years  ayont,  O  years  awa’, 

My  lads,  ye’ll  mind  whate’er  befa’ — 

My  lads,  ye’ll  mind  on  the  bield  o’  the  law, 
When  the  mime  was  shinin’  clearly  ! 


y 

A  LOWDEN  SABBATH  MORN 


THE  clinkum-clank  o’  Sabbath  bells 
Noo  to  the  hoastin’  rookery  swells, 
Noo  faintin’  laigh  in  shady  dells, 

Sounds  far  an’  near. 

An’  through  the  simmer  kintry  tells 
Its  tale  o’  cheer. 


An’  noo,  to  that  melodious  play, 

A’  deidly  awn  the  quiet  sway — 

A’  ken  their  solemn  holiday, 

Bestial  an’  human, 

The  singin’  lintie  on  the  brae. 

The  restin’  plou’man. 

He,  mair  than  a’  the  lave  o’  men, 
His  week  completit  joys  to  ken; 

Half -dressed,  he  daunders  out  an’  in, 
Perplext  wi’  leisure; 

An’  his  raxt  limbs  he’ll  rax  again 
Wi’  painfti’  pleesure. 


IN  SCOTS 


117 


The  steerin’  mither  strang  afit 

Noo  shoos  the  bairn ies  but  a  bit; 

Noo  cries  them  ben,1  their  Sinday  shiiit 
To  scart  upon  them, 

Or  sweeties  in  their  pooch  to  pit, 

Wi’  blessin’s  on  them. 

The  lasses,  clean  frae  tap  to  taes, 

Are  busked  in  crunklin’  underclaes; 

The  gartened  hose,  the  weel-filled  stays. 

The  nakit  shift, 

A’  bleached  on  bonny  greens  for  days, 

An’  white’s  the  drift. 

An’  noo  to  face  the  kirkward  mile: 

The  guidman’s  hat  o’  dacent  style, 

The  blackit  shoon,  we  noo  maun  fyle 
As  white’s  the  miller: 

A  waefu’  peety  tae,  to  spile 
The  warth  o’  siller. 

Our  Marg’et,  aye  sae  keen  to  crack 

Douce-stappin’  in  the  stoury  track 

Her  emeralt  goun  a’  kiltit  back 
Frae  snawy  coats, 

White-ankled,  leads  the  kirkward  pack 
Wi’  Dauvit  Groats. 

1“But” — the  outer  room,  “ben” — the  inner  room  of  a  two-roomed 
cottage. 


shoes,  soil 


dusty 


118 


UNDERWOODS 


a  little  behind 

hooks  on  to 
comely 


drive 

dust 


gate,  plunge 


solemn 

diffident 


A  thocht  ahint,  in  runkled  breeks, 

A’  spiled  wi’  lyin’  by  for  weeks. 

The  guidman  follows  closs,  an’  cleiks 
The  sonsie  missis; 

His  sarious  face  at  aince  bespeaks 
The  day  that  this  is. 

And  aye  an’  while  we  nearer  draw 
To  whaur  the  kirkton  lies  alaw, 

Mair  neebours,  coinin’  saft  an’  slaw 
Frae  here  an’  there, 

The  thicker  thrang  the  gate  an’  caw 
The  stour  in  air. 

But  hark !  the  bells  frae  nearer  clang; 

To  rowst  the  slaw,  their  sides  they  bang; 
An’  see !  black  coats  a’ready  thrang 
The  green  kirkyaird; 

And  at  the  yett,  the  chestnuts  spang 
That  brocht  the  laird. 

The  solemn  elders  at  the  plate 
Stand  drinkin’  deep  the  pride  o’  state: 
The  practised  hands  as  gash  an’  great 
As  Lords  o’  Session; 

The  later  named,  a  wee  thing  blate 
In  their  expression. 

The  prentit  stanes  that  mark  the  deid, 
Wi’  lengthened  lip,  the  sarious  read; 
Syne  wag  a  moraleesin’  heid. 


IN  SCOTS 


119 


An’  then  an’  there 

Their  hirplin’  practice  an’  their  creed 
Try  hard  to  square. 

It’s  here  our  Merren  lang  has  lain, 

A  wee  bewast  the  table-stane; 

An’  yon’s  the  grave  o’  Sandy  Blane; 
An’  further  ower, 

The  mither’s  brithers,  dacent  men ! 
Lie  a’  the  fower. 

Here  the  guidman  sail  bide  a  wee 
To  dwall  amang  the  deid;  to  see 
Auld  faces  clear  in  fancy’s  e’e: 

Belike  to  hear 

Auld  voices  fa’in’  saft  an’  slee 
On  fancy’s  ear. 

Thus,  on  the  day  o’  solemn  things, 
The  bell  that  in  the  steeple  swings 
To  fauld  a  scaittered  faim’ly  rings 
Its  walcome  screed; 

An’  just  a  wee  thing  nearer  brings 
The  quick  an’  deid. 

But  noo  the  bell  is  ringin’  in; 

To  tak  their  places,  folk  begin; 

The  minister  himsel’  will  shiine 
Be  up  the  gate, 

Filled  fu’  wi’  clavers  about  sin 
An’  man’s  estate. 


limping 


west  of 


talk 


120 


UNDERWOODS 


coughing 

chooses 


reached 


The  ttines  are  up — French ,  to  be  shtire. 
The  faithfii’  French ,  an’  twa-three  mair; 
The  auld  prezentor,  hoastin’  sair, 

Wales  out  the  portions. 

An’  yirks  the  time  into  the  air 
Wi’  queer  contortions. 

Follows  the  prayer,  the  readin’  next, 

An’  than  the  fisslin’  for  the  text — 

The  twa-three  last  to  find  it,  vext 
But  kind  o’  proud; 

An’  than  the  peppermints  are  raxed, 

An’  southernwood. 


heads 


watchful, 
stick  a  pin 

children 

parish 


wakeful 

stubborn 


sidelong  peep 
comely 


For  noo’s  the  time  whan  pows  are  seen 
Nid-noddin’  like  a  mandareen; 

When  tenty  mithers  stap  a  preen 
In  sleepin’  weans; 

An’  nearly  half  the  parochine 
Forget  their  pains. 

There’s  just  a  waukrif  twa  or  three: 
Thrawn  commentautors  sweer  to  ’gree. 
Weans  glowrin’  at  the  bumlin’  bee 
On  win  die-glasses, 

Or  lads  that  tak  a  keek  a-glee 
At  sonsie  lasses. 

HimseF,  meanwhile,  frae  whaur  he  cocks 
An’  bobs  belaw  the  soundin’-box, 

The  treesures  of  his  words  unlocks 


IN  SCOTS 


m 


Wi’  prodigality. 

An’  deals  some  unco’  dingin’  knocks 
To  infidality. 

Wi’  sappy  unction,  hoo  lie  burkes 
The  hopes  o’  men  that  trust  in  works, 
Expounds  the  fau’ts  o’  ither  kirks, 

An’  shaws  the  best  o’  them 
No’  muckle  better  than  mere  Turks, 

When  a’s  confessed  o’  them. 

Bethankit !  what  a  bonny  creed  ! 

What  mair  would  ony  Christian  need? — 

The  braw  words  rumm’le  ower  his  heid, 

Nor  steer  the  sleeper; 

An’  in  their  restin’  graves,  the  deid 
Sleep  aye  the  deeper. 

Note. — It  may  be  guessed  by  some  that  I  had  a  certain  parish  in 
my  eye,  and  this  makes  it  proper  I  should  add  a  word  of  disclamation. 
In  my  time  there  have  been  two  ministers  in  that  parish.  Of  the  first 
I  have  a  special  reason  to  speak  well,  even  had  there  been  any  to  think 
ill.  The  second  I  have  often  met  in  private  and  long  (in  the  due  phrase) 
“sat  under”  in  his  church,  and  neither  here  nor  there  have  I  heard  an 
unkind  or  ugly  word  upon  his  lips.  The  preacher  of  the  text  had  thus 
no  original  in  that  particular  parish;  but  when  I  was  a  boy,  he  might 
have  been  observed  in  many  others;  he  was  then  (like  the  schoolmaster) 
abroad;  and  by  recent  advices,  it  would  seem  he  has  not  yet  entirely 
disappeared.  [R.L.S.] 


122 


UNDERWOODS 


Fortune¬ 

teller 


grill 


very  easy 
asking 


cows 


taste 


VI 


THE  SP AE WIFE 


OI  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — 

*  Why  chops  are  guid  to  brander  and  nane  sae  guid 
to  fry. 

An’  siller,  that’s  sae  braw  to  keep,  is  brawer  still  to  gi’e. 
— It's  gey  an ’  easy  speirin ’,  says  the  beggar-wife  to  me. 


O,  I  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — 

Hoo  a’  things  come  to  be  whaur  we  find  them  when  we  try, 
The  lasses  in  their  claes  an’  the  fishes  in  the  sea. 

— It's  gey  an  easy  speirin  ,  says  the  beggar-wife  to  me. 


O,  I  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — 

Why  lads  are  a’  to  sell  an’  lasses  a’  to  buy; 

An’  naebody  for  dacency  but  barely  twa  or  three. 

— It’s  gey  an  easy  speirin ’,  says  the  beggar-wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — 

Gin  death’s  as  shiire  to  men  as  killin’  is  to  kye, 

Why  God  has  filled  the  yearth  sae  fu’  o’  tasty  things  to 
pree. 

— It's  gey  an'  easy  speirin says  the  beggar-wife  to  me. 

O,  I  w’ad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — 

The  reason  o’  the  cause  an’  the  wherefore  o’  the  why, 
Wi’  mony  anither  riddle  brings  the  tear  into  my  e’e. 

— It's  gey  an  easy  speirin ’,  says  the  beggar-wife  to  me. 


IN  SCOTS 


VII 


123 


THE  BLAST  — 1875 

* 

IT’S  rainin’.  Weet’s  the  gairden  sod, 

Weet  the  lang  roads  whaur  gangrels  plod — 
A  maist  unceevil  thing  o’  God 
In  mid  July — 

If  ye’ll  just  curse  the  sneckdraw,  dod ! 

An’  sae  wull  I ! 

He’s  a  braw  place  in  Heev’n,  ye  ken, 

An’  lea’s  us  puir,  forjaskit  men 
Clamjamfried  in  the  but  and  ben 
He  ca’s  the  earth — 

A  wee  bit  inconvenient  den 
No  muckle  worth; 


An’  whiles,  at  orra  times,  keeks  out, 
Sees  what  puir  mankind  are  about; 

An’  if  He  can,  I’ve  little  doubt. 

Upsets  their  plans; 

He  hates  a’  mankind,  brainch  and  root, 
An’  a’  that’s  man’s. 

An’  whiles,  whan  they  tak’  heart  again. 
An’  life  i’  the  sun  looks  braw  an’  plain, 
Doun  comes  a  jaw  o’  droukin’  rain 
Upon  their  honours — 

God  sends  a  spate  out-ower  the  plain, 
Or  mebbe  thun’ers. 


vagrants 


tricky  fellow 


jaded, 

pinched 


peeps 


plump, 

soaking 


flood 


124 


UNDERWOODS 


wonderful 


stubborn 

lot 


Lord  safe  us,  life’s  an  unco  thing ! 

Simmer  an’  Winter,  Yule  an’  Spring, 

The  damned,  dour-heartit  seasons  bring 
A  feck  o’  trouble. 

I  wadna  try’t  to  be  a  king — 

No,  nor  for  double. 

But  since  we’re  in  it,  willy-nilly. 

We  maun  be  watchfu’,  wise  an’  skilly. 
An’  no  mind  ony  ither  billy. 

Lassie  nor  God. 

But  drink — that’s  my  best  counsel  till  ’e: 
Sae  tak’  the  nod. 


wrestle 


plenty 


dirtied 

pebbles 


VIII 

THE  COUNTERBLAST  — 1886 


MY  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it’s  true. 
Was  made  for  neither  me  nor  you; 
It’s  just  a  place  to  warstle  through, 

As  Job  confessed  o’t; 

And  aye  the  best  that  we’ll  can  do 
Is  mak’  the  best  o’t. 


There’s  rowth  o’  wrang,  I’m  free  to  say: 
The  simmer  brunt,  the  winter  blae, 

The  face  of  earth  a’  fyled  wi’  clay 
An’  dour  wi’  chuckies, 

An’  life  a  rough  an’  land’art  play 
For  country  buckies. 


IN  SCOTS 


125 

An’  food’s  anither  name  for  clart;  dirt 

An’  beasts  an’  brambles  bite  an’  scart; 

An’  wbat  would  we  be  like,  my  heart ! 

If  bared  o’  claethin’P 
— Aweel,  I  canna  mend  your  cart: 

It’s  that  or  naethin’. 

A  feck  o’  folk  frae  first  to  last  lot 

Have  through  this  queer  experience  passed; 

Twa-three,  I  ken,  just  damn  an’  blast 
The  hale  transaction; 

But  twa-three  ithers,  east  an’  wast, 

Fand  satisfaction. 

Wliaur  braid  the  briery  muirs  expand, 

A  waefii’  an’  a  weary  land. 

The  bumble-bees,  a  gowden  band, 

Are  blithely  hingin’; 

An’  there  the  canty  wanderer  fand  cheerful 

The  laverock  singin’.  iark 

Trout  in  the  burn  grow  great  as  herr’n’; 

The  simple  sheep  can  find  their  fair’n’; 

The  wind  blawTs  clean  about  the  cairn 
Wi’  caller  air; 

The  muircock  an’  the  barefit  bairn 
Are  happy  there. 


fresh 


126 


UNDERWOODS 


shelters 

trouble 

sweeping 

chaffinch’s 


steep  hill 

unsheltered 


neat 


distaste 

scramble 


Sic-like  the  howes  o’  life  to  some: 

Green  loans  whaur  they  ne’er  fash  their  thumb, 

But  mark  the  muckle  winds  that  come, 

Soopin’  an’  cool, 

Or  hear  the  powrin’  burnie  drum 
In  the  shilfa’s  pool. 

The  evil  wi’  the  guid  they  tak’; 

They  ca’  a  grey  thing  grey,  no’  black; 

To  a  steigh  brae  a  stubborn  back 
Addressin’  daily; 

An’  up  the  rude,  unbieldy  track 
O’  life,  gang  gaily. 

What  you  would  like’s  a  palace  ha’. 

Or  Sinday  parlour  dink  an’  braw 

Wi’  a’  things  ordered  in  a  raw 
By  denty  leddies. 

Weel,  then,  ye  canna  hae’t :  that’s  a’ 

That  to  be  said  is. 

An’  since  at  life  ye’ve  ta’en  the  grue. 

An’  winna  blithely  hirsle  through, 

Ye’ve  fund  the  very  thing  to  do — 

That’s  to  drink  speerit; 

An’  shtine  we’ll  hear  the  last  o’  you — 

An’  blithe  to  hear  it ! 


IN  SCOTS  127 

The  shoon  ye  coft,  the  life  ye  lead, 

Ithers  will  heir  when  aince  ye’re  deid; 

They’ll  heir  your  tasteless  bite  o’  breid. 

An’  find  it  sappy; 

They’ll  to  your  dulefii’  house  succeed, 

An’  there  be  happy. 

As  whan  a  glum  an’  fractious  wean 
Has  sat  an’  sullened  by  his  lane 
Till,  wi’  a  rowstin’  skelp,  he’s  ta’en 
An’  shoo’d  to  bed — 

The  ither  bairns  a’  fa’  to  play’n’, 

As  gleg’s  a  gled. 

IX 

THE  COUNTERBLAST  IRONICAL 

IT’S  strange  that  God  should  fash  to  frame 
The  yearth  and  lift  sae  hie, 

An’  clean  forget  to  explain  the  same 
To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

Thae  gutsy,  donnered  ither  folk, 

Their  weird  they  weel  may  dree; 

But  why  present  a  pig  in  a  poke 
To  a  gentleman  like  me? 

Thae  ither  folk  their  parritch  eat 
An’  sup  their  sugared  tea; 

But  the  mind  is  no’  to  be  wyled  wi’  meat 
Wi’  a  gentleman  like  me. 


shoes,  buy 

child 

slap 

chased 

lively,  hawk 


trouble 

heaven 


greedy, 

stupid 


128 


UNDERWOODS 


Thae  ither  folk,  they  court  their  joes 
At  gloamin’  on  the  lea; 

But  they’re  made  of  a  commoner  clay,  I  suppose, 
Than  a  gentleman  like  me. 

Thae  ither  folk,  for  richt  or  wrang. 

They  suffer,  bleed,  or  dee; 

But  a’  thir  things  are  an  emp’y  sang 
To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

It’  s  a  different  thing  that  I  demand, 

Tho’  humble  as  can  be — 

A  statement  fair  in  my  Maker’s  hand 
To  a  gentleman  like  me: 

A  clear  account  writ  fair  an’  broad, 

An’  a  plain  apologie; 

Or  the  deevil  a  ceevil  word  to  God 
From  a  gentleman  like  me. 


X 

THEIR  LAUREATE  TO  AN  ACADEMY 
CLASS  DINNER  CLUB 


DEAR  Thamson  class,  whaure’er  I  gang 
It  aye  comes  ower  me  wi’  a  spang: 

“  Lordsake  !  thae  Thamson  lads — (deil  hang 
Or  else  Lord  mend  them!) — 

An’  that  wanchancy  annual  sang 
I  ne’er  can  send  them!” 


unlucky 


IN  SCOTS 


129 


Straucht,  at  the  name,  a  trusty  tyke. 

My  conscience  girrs  ahint  the  dyke; 
Straucht  on  my  hinderlands  I  fyke 
To  find  a  rhyme  t’  ye; 

Pleased — although  mebbe  no’  pleased-like — 
To  gie  my  time  t’  ye. 

“Weel”  an’  says  you,  wi’  heavin’  breist, 

“  Sae  far,  sae  guid,  but  what’s  the  neist? 
Yearly  we  gaither  to  the  feast, 

A ’  hopefu  men — 

Yearly  we  skelloch  ‘ Hang  the  beast — 

Nae  sang  again!’” 

My  lads,  an’  what  am  I  to  say? 

Ye  shlirely  ken  the  Muse’s  way: 

Yestreen,  as  gleg’s  a  tyke — the  day, 

Thrawn  like  a  cuddy: 

Her  conduc’,  that  to  her’s  a  play, 

Deith  to  a  body. 

Aft  whan  I  sat  an’  made  my  mane, 

Aft  whan  I  laboured  burd-alane, 

Fishin’  for  rhymes  an’  findin’  nane, 

Or  nane  were  fit  for  ye — 

Ye  judged  me  cauld’s  a  chucky-stane — 

No  car’n’  a  bit  for  ye ! 

But  saw  ye  ne’er  some  pingein’  bairn 
As  weak  as  a  pitaty-par’n’ — 

Less  iised  wi’  guidin’  horse-shoe  airn 


snarls 

fuss 


cry  out 


lively,  dog 

cross-grained 

donkey 


moan 

an  only  child 

pebble 

whining 

potato-skin 


130 


UNDERWOODS 


pottage 

by  himself 

mid-wife 

Than  steerin’  crowdie — 

Packed  aff  his  lane,  by  moss  an’  cairn. 

To  ca’  the  howdie. 

lad 

wobbles 

Wae’s  me,  for  the  puir  callant  than ! 

Pie  wambles  like  a  poke  o’  bran, 

An’  the  lowse  rein,  as  hard’s  he  can, 

Pn’s,  trem’lin’  handit; 

Till,  blaff !  upon  his  hinderlan’ 

Behauld  him  landit. 

squinting, 

reaching 

peep 

Sic-like— I  awn  the  weary  fac’ — 

Whan  on  my  muse  the  gate  I  tak’. 

An’  see  her  gleed  e’e  raxin’  back 

To  keek  ahint  her; — 

To  me,  the  brig  o’  Pleev’n  gangs  black 

As  blackest  winter. 

rock 

mud 

“ Lordsake !  were  aff,”  thinks  I,  “ but  whaur 
On  what  abhorred  an ’  whinny  scaur , 

Or  whammled  in  what  sea  o’  glaur , 

Will  she  desert  me? 

An ’  will  she  just  disgrace?  or  warn — 

Will  she  no ’  hurt  me?” 

puzzling 

troublesome 

spring 

Kittle  the  qusere !  But  at  least 

The  day  I’ve  backed  the  fashious  beast. 
While  she,  wi’  mony  a  spang  an’  reist, 
Flang  heels  ower  bonnet; 

An’  a’  triumphant — for  your  feast, 

Plae  !  there’s  your  sonnet ! 

IN  SCOTS 


131 


XI 


EMBRO  HIE  KIRK 


THE  Lord  HimseF  in  former  days 

Waled  out  the  proper  times  for  praise 
An’  named  the  proper  kind  o’  claes 
For  folk  to  preach  in: 

Preceese  and  in  the  chief  o'  ways 
Important  teachin’. 


He  ordered  a’  things  late  and  air’; 
He  ordered  folk  to  stand  at  prayer. 
(Although  I  canna  just  mind  where 
He  gave  the  warnin’.) 

An’  pit  pomatum  on  their  hair 
On  Sabbath  mornin’. 

The  hale  o’  life  by  His  commands 
Was  ordered  to  a  body’s  hands; 
But  see !  this  corpus  juris  stands 
By  a’  forgotten; 

An’  God’s  religion  in  a’  lands 
Is  deid  an’  rotten. 


While  thus  the  lave  o’  mankind’s  lost, 
O’  Scotland  still  God  maks  His  boast — 
Puir  Scotland,  on  whase  barren  coast 
A  score  or  twa 

Auld  wives  wi’  mutches  an’  a  hoast 
Still  keep  His  law. 


chose 


early 


rest 


caps,  cough 


132 


UNDERWOODS 


few 

In  Scotland,  a  wheen  canty,  plain, 

Douce,  kintry-leevin’  folk  retain 

The  Truth  or  did  so  aince  alane 

Of  a’  men  leevin’; 

An’  noo  just  twa  o’  them  remain — 

Just  Begg  an’  Niven.1 

For  noo,  unfaithfii’  to  the  Lord, 

Auld  Scotland  joins  the  rebel  horde; 

Her  human  hymn-books  on  the  board 

She  noo  displays: 

An’  Embro  Hie  Kirk’s  been  restored 

In  popish  ways. 

0  punctum  temporis  for  action 

To  a’  o’  the  reformin’  faction. 

If  yet,  by  ony  act  or  paction, 

Thocht,  word,  or  sermon, 

This  dark  an’  damnable  transaction 

Micht  yet  determine ! 

a  few  children 

For  see — as  Doctor  Begg  explains — 

Hoo  easy  ’t’s  dime !  a  pickle  weans, 

Wha  in  the  Hie  Street  gaither  stanes 

By  his  instruction, 

painted 

The  uncoven  antit,  pen  tit  panes 

Ding  to  destruction. 

1  Two  Scotsmen,  celebrated  for  their  pronounced  Presbyterian  or¬ 
thodoxy. 

IN  SCOTS  133 

Up,  Niven,  or  ower  late — an’  dash 

Laigh  in  the  glaur  that  carnal  hash; 

Let  spires  and  pews  wi’  gran’  stramash 
Thegither  fa’; 

The  rumlin’  kist  o’  whustles  smash 
In  pieces  sma’. 

Noo  choose  ye  out  a  walie  hammer; 

About  the  knottit  buttress  clam’er; 

Alang  the  steep  roof  stoyt  an’  stammer 
A  gate  mischancy; 

On  the  aul’  spire,  the  bells’  hie  cha’mer, 

Dance  your  bit  dancie. 

Ding,  devel,  dunt,  destroy,  an’  ruin, 

Wi’  carnal  stanes  the  square  best  rewin,’ 

Till  your  loud  chaps  frae  Kyle  to  Fruin, 

Frae  Hell  to  Heeven, 

Tell  the  guid  wark  that  baith  are  doin’ — 

Baith  Begg  an’  Niven. 


XII 

THE  SCOTSMAN’S  RETURN  FROM 

ABROAD 

(in  a  LETTER  FROM  MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  JOHNSTONE) 

IN  mony  a  foreign  pairt  I’ve  been. 

An’  mony  an  unco  ferlie  seen, 

Since,  Mr.  Johnstone,  you  and  I 
Last  walkit  upon  Cocklerye. 

Wi’  gleg,  observant  een,  I  pass’t 
By  sea  an’  land,  through  East  an’  Wast, 


low,  mod 
crash 

organ 

heavy 

totter,  tumble 

unlucky 

chamber 


many  strange 
things 


quick, 

observing  eyes 


134 


UNDERWOODS 


every 

And  still  in  ilka  age  an’  station 

Saw  naething  but  abomination. 

In  thir  uncoven  an  tit  lands 

wandering 

pith 

The  gangrel  Scot  uplifts  his  hands 

At  lack  of  a’  sectarian  fiish’n, 

An’  cauld  religious  destitution. 

He  rins,  puir  man,  frae  place  to  place, 

Tries  a’  their  graceless  means  o’  grace, 
Preacher  on  preacher,  kirk  on  kirk — 

This  yin  a  stot  an’  thon  a  stirk  1 — 

pin 

A  bletherin’  clan,  no  warth  a  preen, 

As  bad  as  Smith  of  Aiberdeen  ! 2 

United 

Presbyterian 

At  last,  across  the  weary  faem, 

Frae  far,  outlandish  pairts  I  came. 

On  ilka  side  o’  me  I  fand 

Fresh  tokens  o’  my  native  land. 

Wi’  whatna  joy  I  hailed  them  a’ — 

The  hill-taps  standin’  raw  by  raw. 

The  public  house,  the  Hielan’  birks. 

And  a’  the  bonny  U.  P.  kirks ! 

But  maistly  thee,  the  bluid  o’  Scots, 

Frae  Maidenkirk  to  John  o’  Grots, 

The  king  o’  drinks,  as  I  conceive  it, 

Talisker,  Isla,  or  Glenlivet ! 

portmanteau 

For  after  years  wi’  a  pockmantie 

Frae  Zanzibar  to  Alicante, 

In  mony  a  fash  and  sair  affliction 

1  “Stot”  and  “stirk,”  lit.  cattle,  used  to  express  stupidity. 

2  The  late  Professor  Roberston  Smith  of  Cambridge,  formerly  of  Aber 
deen,  a  leader  of  the  school  of  advanced  Biblical  criticism. 

IN  SCOTS  135 

I  gie’t  as  my  sincere  conviction — 

Of  a’  their  foreign  tricks  an’  pliskies, 

I  maist  abominate  their  whiskies. 

Nae  doot,  themsel’s,  they  ken  it  weel, 

An’  wi’  a  hash  o’  leemon  peel, 

And  ice  an’  siccan  filth,  they  ettle 
The  stawsome  kind  o’  goo  to  settle; 

Sic  wersh  apothecary’s  broos  wi’ 

As  Scotsmen  scorn  to  fyle  their  moo’s  wi’. 

An’,  man,  I  was  a  blithe  hame-comer 
Whan  first  I  syndit  out  my  rummer. 

Ye  should  hae  seen  me  then,  wi’  care 
The  less  important  pairts  prepare; 

Syne,  weel  contentit  wi’  it  a’. 

Pour  in  the  speerits  wi’  a  jaw ! 

I  didna  drink,  I  didna  speak, — 

I  only  snowkit  up  the  reek. 

I  was  sae  pleased  therein  to  paidle, 

I  sat  an’  plowtered  wi’  my  ladle. 

An’  blithe  was  I,  the  morrow’s  morn. 

To  daunder  through  the  stookit  corn. 

And  after  a’  my  strange  mishanters, 

Sit  doun  amang  my  ain  dissenters. 

An’,  man,  it  was  a  joy  to  me 
The  pu’pit  an’  the  pews  to  see, 

The  pennies  dirlin’  in  the  plate. 

The  elders  lookin’  on  in  state; 

An’  ’mang  the  first,  as  it  befell, 

Wha  should  I  see,  sir,  but  yoursel’ ! 


mischiefs 


such,  try- 

disgusting, 
taste  insipid 


rinsed, 

tumbler 


plump 

snuffed, 

smoke 

paddle 

saunter 

mishaps 


136 


UNDERWOODS 


glance 


perhaps 

closed 

peeped 


shuddered 


I  was,  and  I  will  no’  deny  it. 

At  the  first  gliff  a  hantle  tryit 
To  see  yoursel’  in  sic  a  station — 

It  seemed  a  doubtfii’  dispensation. 

The  feelin’  was  a  mere  digression; 

For  shiine  I  understood  the  session. 

An’  mindin’  Aiken  an’  M’Neil, 

I  wondered  they  had  dime  sae  week 
I  saw  I  had  mysel’  to  blame; 

For  had  I  but  remained  at  hame, 

Aiblins — though  no  ava’  deservin’  ’t — 

They  micht  hae  named  your  humble  servant. 

The  kirk  was  filled,  the  door  was  steiked; 

Up  to  the  pu’pit  aince  I  keeked; 

I  was  mair  pleased  than  I  can  tell — 

It  was  the  minister  himsel’ ! 

Proud,  proud  was  I  to  see  his  face, 

After  sae  lang  awa’  frae  grace. 

Pleased  as  I  was,  I’m  no  denyin’ 

Some  maitters  were  not  edifyin’; 

For  first  I  fand — an’  here  was  news ! — 

Mere  hymn-books  cockin’  in  the  pews — 

A  humanised  abomination. 

Unfit  for  ony  congregation. 

Syne,  while  I  still  was  on  the  tenter, 

I  scunnered  at  the  new  prezentor; 

I  thocht  him  gesterin’  an’  cauld — 

A  sair  declension  frae  the  auld. 

Syne,  as  though  a’  the  faith  was  wreckit, 

The  prayer  was  not  what  I’d  exspeckit. 


IN  SCOTS 


1S7 


Himsel’,  as  it  appeared  to  me, 

Was  no’  the  man  he  used  to  be. 

But  just  as  I  was  growin’  vext 
He  waled,  a  maist  judeecious  text, 

An’,  launchin’  into  his  prelections, 
Swoopt,  wi’  a  skirl,  on  a’  defections. 

O  what  a  gale  was  on  my  speerit 
To  hear  the  p’ints  o’  doctrine  clearit. 
And  a’  the  horrors  o’  damnation 
Set  furth  wi’  faithfu’  ministration ! 

Nae  shauchlin’  testimony  here — 

We  were  a’  damned,  an’  that  was  clear. 
I  owned,  wi’  gratitude  an’  wonder. 

He  was  a  pleesure  to  sit  under. 


XIII 

EFE  in  the  nicht  in  bed  I  lay, 

The  winds  were  at  their  weary  play. 
An’  tirlin’  wa’s  an’  skirlin’  wTae 

Through  Heev’n  they  battered; — 
On-ding  o’  hail,  on-blaff  o’  spray. 

The  tempest  blattered. 


The  masoned  house  it  dinled  through; 
It  dung  the  ship,  it  cowped  the  coo’; 
The  rankit  aiks  it  overthrew. 

Had  braved  a’  weathers; 

The  strang  sea-gleds  it  took  an’  blew 
Awa’  like  feathers. 


chose 


shuffling 


twirling, 

shrieking 


capsized 


sea-kites 


138 


UNDERWOODS 


throes 


tumultuous 

uproar 

would  have 
upset 

sold  by 
auction 


pin 


sheltered 


slovenly 


The  thrawes  o’  fear  on  a’  were  shed, 

An’  the  hair  rose,  an’  slumber  fled. 

An’  lichts  were  lit  an’  prayers  were  said 
Through  a’  the  kintry; 

An’  the  cauld  terror  clum  in  bed 
Wi’  a’  an’  sindry. 

To  hear  in  the  pit-mirk  on  hie 
The  brangled  collieshangie  flie, 

The  war!’,  they  thocht,  wi’  land  an’  sea, 
Itsel’  wad  cowpit; 

An’  for  auld  airn,  the  smashed  debris 
By  God  be  rowpit. 

Meanwhile  frae  far  Aldeboran, 

To  folks  wi’  talescopes  in  han’, 

O’  ships  that  cowpit,  winds  that  ran, 
Nae  sign  was  seen, 

But  the  wee  warl’  in  sunshine  span 
As  bricht’s  a  preen. 

I,  tae,  by  God’s  especial  grace, 

Dwall  denty  in  a  bieldy  place, 

Wi’  hosened  feet,  wi’  shaven  face, 

Wi’  dacent  mainners: 

A  grand  example  to  the  race 
O’  tautit  sinners ! 

The  wind  may  blaw,  the  heathen  rage. 
The  deil  may  start  on  the  rampage; — ■ 
The  sick  in  bed,  the  thief  in  cage — 


IN  SCOTS 


139 


What's  a’  to  me? 

Cosh  in  my  house,  a  sober  sage, 

I  sit  an’  see. 

An’  whiles  the  bluid  spangs  to  my  bree, 
To  lie  sae  saft,  to  live  sae  free, 

While  better  men  maun  do  an’  die 
In  unco  places. 

“Whaur’s  God?”  I  cry,  an’  “Whae  is  me 
To  hae  sic  graces  P” 

I  mind  the  fecht  the  sailors  keep, 

But  fire  or  can’le,  rest  or  sleep. 

In  darkness  an’  the  muckle  deep; 

An’  mind  beside 

The  herd  that  on  the  hills  o’  sheep 
Has  wandered  wide. 

I  mind  me  on  the  hoastin’  weans — 

The  penny  joes  on  causey-stanes — 

The  auld  folk  wi’  the  crazy  banes; 

Baith  auld  an’  puir. 

That  aye  maun  thole  the  winds  an’  rains, 
An’  labour  sair. 

An’  whiles  I’m  kind  o’  pleased  a  blink, 
An’  kind  o’  fleyed  forby,  to  think, 

For  a’  my  rowth  o’  meat  an’  drink 
An’  waste  o’  crumb 
I’ll  rnebbe  have  to  thole  wi’  skink 
In  Kingdom  Come. 


cosy 

springs,  brow 

strange 


without 


coughing 


endure 


frightened 

plenty 

put  up  with 
wish-wash 


140 


UNDERWOODS 


frothing 

scalded 

For  God  whan  jowes  the  Judgment-bell, 
Wi’  His  ain  Hand,  His  Leevin’  Sel’, 

Sail  ryve  the  guid  (as  Prophets  tell) 

Frae  them  that  had  it; 

And  in  the  reamin’  pat  o’  Hell, 

The  rich  be  scaddit. 

dawn 

0  Lord,  if  this  indeed  be  sae, 

Let  daw  that  sair  an’  happy  day! 

Again’  the  waiT,  grawn  auld  an’  grey. 

Up  wi’  your  aixe ! 

I’ll  stand  my 
punishment 

And  let  the  puir  enjoy  their  play — 

I’ll  thole  my  paiks. 

dog,  mare 

XIV 

MY  CONSCIENCE  ! 

jC~\F  a’  the  ills  that  flesh  can  fear, 

The  loss  o’  frien’s,  the  lack  o’  gear, 
A  yowlin’  tyke,  a  glandered  mear, 

A  lassie’s  nonsense — 

There’s  just  ae  thing  I  canna.  bear. 

An’  that’s  my  conscience. 

chamber 

Whan  day  (an’  a’  excuse)  has  gane, 

An’  wark  is  dune,  and  duty’s  plain. 

An’  to  my  chalmer  a’  my  lane 

I  creep  apairt, 

gnawing 

My  conscience !  hoo  the  yammerin’  pain 
Stends  to  my  heart ! 

IN  SCOTS 


141 


A’  day  wi’  various  ends  in  view 
The  hairsts  o’  time  I  had  to  pu’, 

An’  made  a  hash  wad  staw  a  soo. 

Let  be  a  man  ! — 

My  conscience !  whan  my  ban’s  were  fu’, 
Whaur  were  ye  than? 

An’  there  were  a’  the  lures  o’  life. 

There  pleesure  skirlin’  on  the  fife. 

There  anger,  wi’  the  hotchin’  knife 
Ground  shairp  in  Hell — 

My  conscience  ! — you  that’s  like  a  wife  ! — 
Whaur  was  yoursel’  ? 

I  ken  it  fine:  just  waitin’  here. 

To  gar  the  evil  waur  appear. 

To  clart  the  guid,  confuse  the  clear, 
Misca’  the  great, 

My  conscience !  an’  to  raise  a  steer 
When  a’s  ower  late. 


harvests 
disgust  a  pig 


lopping 


besmirch 


Sic-like,  some  tyke  grawn  auld  and  blind. 
Whan  thieves  brok’  through  the  gear  to  p’ind 
Has  lain  his  dozened  length  an’  grinned 
At  the  disaster; 

An’  the  morn’s  mornin’,  wud’s  the  wind, 
Yokes  on  his  master. 


goods  to  seize 
stupefied 


next  morning, 
wild  as  the 
wind 


142 


UNDERWOODS 


XV 

TO  DOCTOR  JOHN  BROWN 

Whan  the  dear  doctor,  dear  to  a\ 

Was  still  amang  us  here  helaw, 

I  set  my  pipes  his  praise  to  blaw 
Wi  a ’  my  speerit ; 

But  noo,  dear  Doctor!  he's  awa, 

An  ne'er  can  hear  it. 


hive 

trouble 


hockey-stick 


linnet 


BY  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by  Thames  and  Tees 
By  a’  the  various  river  Dee’s, 

In  Mars  and  Manors  ’yont  the  seas 
Or  here  at  hame, 

Whaure’er  there’s  kindly  folk  to  please, 
They  ken  your  name. 

They  ken  your  name,  they  ken  your  tyke, 
They  ken  the  honey  from  your  byke; 

But  mebbe  after  a’  your  fyke, 

(The  truth  to  tell) 

It’s  just  your  honest  Rab  they  like, 

An’  no’  yoursel’. 

As  at  the  gowff,  some  canny  play’r 
Should  tee  a  common  ba’  wi’  care — 

Should  flourish  and  deleever  fair 
His  souple  shintie — 

An’  the  ba’  rise  into  the  air, 

A  leevin’  lintie: 


IN  SCOTS 


143 


Sae  in  the  game  we  writers  play, 

There  comes  to  some  a  bonny  day, 
When  a  dear  ferlie  shall  repay 
Their  years  o’  strife, 

An’  like  your  Rab,  their  things  o’  clay, 
Spreid  wings  o’  life. 

Ye  scarce  deserved  it,  I’m  afraid — 

You  that  had  never  learned  the  trade, 
But  just  some  idle  mornin’  strayed 
Into  the  schiile, 

An’  picked  the  fiddle  up  an’  played 
Like  Neil1  himsek. 

Your  e’e  was  gleg,  your  fingers  dink; 
Ye  didna  fash  yoursel’  to  think, 

But  wove,  as  fast  as  puss  can  link, 

Your  denty  wab: — 

Ye  stapped  your  pen  into  the  ink, 

An’  there  was  Rab  ! 

Sinsyne,  whaure’er  your  fortune  lay 
By  dowie  den,  by  canty  brae, 

Simmer  an’  winter,  nicht  an’  day, 

Rab  was  aye  wi’  ye; 

An’  a’  the  folk  on  a’  the  way 
Were  blithe  to  see  ye. 

1  Neil  Gow,  the  great  Highland  fiddler 


wonder 


quick,  neat 


trip 


since  then 
dull,  cheerful 


144 


UNDERWOODS 


look  a  little 


ghost 


old-fashioned 


toasts 


O  sir,  the  gods  are  kind  indeed, 

An’  hauld  ye  for  an  honoured  heid, 
That  for  a  wee  bit  clarkit  screed 
Sae  weel  reward  ye, 

An5  lend — puir  Rabbie  bein’  deid — 

His  ghaist  to  guard  ye. 

For  though,  whaure’er  yoursek  may  be. 
We’ve  just  to  turn  an’  glisk  a  wee, 

An’  Rab  at  heel  we’re  shiire  to  see 
Wi’  gladsome  caper: — 

The  bogle  of  a  bogle,  he — 

A  ghaist  o’  paper ! 

And  as  the  auld-farrant  hero  sees 
In  Hell  a  bogle  Hercules, 

Pit  there  the  lesser  deid  to  please. 
While  he  himsei’ 

Dwalls  wi’  the  muckle  gods  at  ease 
Far  raised  frae  hell: 

Sae  the  true  Rabbie  far  has  gane 
On  kindlier  business  o’  his  ain 
Wi’  aulder  frien’s;  an’  his  breist-bane 
An’  stumpie  tailie. 

He  birstles  at  a  new  hearth-stane 
By  James  and  Ailie. 


IN  SCOTS 


145 


XVI 

IT’S  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an’  youth 
And  it  brooks  wi’  nae  denial. 

That  the  dearest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends. 
And  the  young  are  just  on  trial. 

There’s  a  rival  bauld  wi’  young  an’  auld 
And  it’s  him  that  has  bereft  me; 

For  the  surest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 
And  the  maist  o’  mine’s  hae  left  me. 

There  are  kind  hearts  still,  for  friends  to  fill 
And  fools  to  take  and  break  them; 

But  the  nearest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 
And  the  grave’s  the  place  to  seek  them. 


true  refrain 


Ill 

SONGS  OF  TRAVEL  AND 
OTHER  VERSES 


WRITTEN 

PRINCIPALLY  IN  THE  SOUTH  SEAS 

1888-1894 


J 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


i 

THE  VAGABOND 
(to  an  air  of  schubert) 

GIVE  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me, 

Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 
And  the  byway  nigh  me. 

Bed  in  the  bush  with  stars  to  see, 
Bread  I  dip  in  the  river — 
There’s  the  life  for  a  man  like  me. 
There’s  the  life  for  ever. 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late. 

Let  what  will  be  o’er  me; 

Give  the  face  of  earth  around 
And  the  road  before  me. 

Wealth  I  seek  not,  hope  nor  love. 
Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 

All  I  seek,  the  heaven  above 
And  the  road  below  me. 

Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 
Where  afield  I  linger, 

Silencing  the  bird  on  tree, 

Biting  the  blue  finger: 

149 


150 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


White  as  meal  the  frosty  field — 
Warm  the  fireside  haven — 

Not  to  autumn  will  I  yield, 

Not  to  winter  even  ! 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late. 

Let  what  will  be  o’er  me; 

Give  the  face  of  earth  around, 

And  the  road  before  me. 

Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope  nor  love. 
Nor  a  friend  to  know  me. 

All  I  ask  the  heaven  above, 

And  the  road  below  me. 

II 

YOUTH  AND  LOVE 

i 

ONCE  only  by  the  garden  gate 

Our  lips  we  joined  and  parted. 
I  must  fulfil  an  empty  fate 
And  travel  the  uncharted. 

Hail  and  farewell !  I  must  arise. 
Leave  here  the  fatted  cattle, 

And  paint  on  foreign  lands  and  skies 
My  Odyssey  of  battle. 

The  untented  Kosmos  my  abode, 

I  pass,  a  wilful  stranger: 

My  mistress  still  the  open  road 
And  the  bright  eyes  of  danger. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


151 


Come  ill  or  well,  the  cross,  the  crown, 
The  rainbow  or  the  thunder, 

I  fling  my  soul  and  body  down 
For  God  to  plough  them  under. 


Ill 

YOUTH  AND  LOVE 
ii 

TO  the  heart  of  youth  the  world  is  a  highwayside 
Passing  for  ever,  he  fares;  and  on  either  hand, 
Deep  in  the  gardens  golden  pavilions  hide. 

Nestle  in  orchard  bloom,  and  far  on  the  level  land 
Call  him  with  lighted  lamp  in  the  eventide. 

Thick  as  the  stars  at  night  when  the  moon  is  down, 
Pleasures  assail  him.  He  to  his  nobler  fate 
Fares;  and  but  waves  a  hand  as  he  passes  on, 

.Cries  but  a  wayside  word  to  her  at  the  garden  gate, 
Sings  but  a  boyish  stave  and  his  face  is  gone. 


IV 

THE  UNFORGOTTEN 

i 

IN  dreams,  unhappy,  I  behold  you  stand 
As  heretofore: 

The  unremembered  tokens  in  your  hand 
Avail  no  more. 


152 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


No  more  the  morning  glow,  no  more  the  grace. 
Enshrines,  endears. 

Cold  beats  the  light  of  time  upon  your  face 
And  shows  your  tears. 

He  came,  he  went.  Perchance  you  wept  a-while 
And  then  forgot. 

Ah  me !  but  he  that  left  you  with  a  smile 
Forgets  you  not. 


V 

THE  UNFORGOTTEN 

ii 

SHE  rested  by  the  Broken  Brook 
She  drank  of  Weary  Well, 

She  moved  beyond  my  lingering  look, 
Ah,  whither  none  can  tell ! 

She  came,  she  went.  In  other  lands, 
Perchance  in  fairer  skies, 

Her  hands  shall  cling  with  other  hands, 
Her  eyes  to  other  eyes. 

She  vanished.  In  the  sounding  town. 
Will  she  remember  too? 

Will  she  recall  the  eyes  of  brown 
As  I  recall  the  blue? 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


153 


VI 

ri  HIE  infinite  shining  heavens 

Rose  and  I  saw  in  the  night 
Uncountable  angel  stars 

Showering  sorrow  and  light. 

I  saw  them  distant  as  heaven, 

Dumb  and  shining  and  dead. 

And  the  idle  stars  of  the  night 
Were  dearer  to  me  than  bread. 

Night  after  night  in  my  sorrow 
The  stars  stood  over  the  sea, 

Till  lo !  I  looked  in  the  dusk 

And  a  star  had  come  down  to  me. 

VII 

PLAIN  as  the  glistering  planets  shine 
When  winds  have  cleaned  the  skies. 
Her  love  appeared,  appealed  for  mine 
And  wantoned  in  her  eyes. 

Clear  as  the  shining  tapers  burned 
On  Cytherea’s  shrine, 

Those  brimming,  lustrous  beauties  turned, 
And  called  and  conquered  mine. 

The  beacon-lamp  that  Hero  lit 
No  fairer  shone  on  sea, 

No  plainlier  summoned  will  and  wit, 

Than  hers  encouraged  me. 


154 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


I  thrilled  to  feel  her  influence  near, 

I  struck  my  flag  at  sight. 

Her  starry  silence  smote  my  ear 
Like  sudden  drums  at  night. 

I  ran  as,  at  the  cannon’s  roar. 

The  troops  the  ramparts  man — 

As  in  the  holy  house  of  yore 
The  willing  Eli  ran. 

Here,  lady,  lo !  that  servant  stands 
You  picked  from  passing  men. 

And  should  you  need  nor  heart  nor  hands 
He  bows  and  goes  again. 


VIII 

TO  you,  let  snow  and  roses 
And  golden  locks  belong. 
These  are  the  world’s  enslavers, 
Let  these  delight  the  throng. 
For  her  of  duskier  lustre 
Whose  favour  still  I  wear. 
The  snow  be  in  her  kirtle, 

The  rose  be  in  her  hair ! 

The  hue  of  highland  rivers 
Careering,  full  and  cool. 

From  sable  on  to  golden, 

From  rapid  on  to  pool — 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


155 


The  hue  of  heather-honey, 

The  hue  of  honey-bees. 

Shall  tinge  her  golden  shoulder, 
Shall  gild  her  tawny  knees. 


IX 

Er  Beauty  awake  in  the  morn  from  beautiful  dreams, 

Beauty  awake  from  rest ! 

Let  Beauty  awake 
For  Beauty’s  sake 

In  the  hour  when  the  birds  awake  in  the  brake 

And  the  stars  are  bright  in  the  west ! 

Let  Beauty  awake  in  the  eve  from  the  slumber  of  day, 

Awake  in  the  crimson  eve ! 

In  the  day’s  dusk  end 
When  the  shades  ascend. 

Let  her  wake  to  the  kiss  of  a  tender  friend 

To  render  again  and  receive ! 


X 

I  KNOW  not  how  it  is  with  you — 
I  love  the  first  and  last, 

The  whole  field  of  the  present  view, 
The  whole  flow  of  the  past. 

One  tittle  of  the  things  that  are. 
Nor  you  should  change  nor  I — 
One  pebble  in  our  path — one  star 
In  all  our  heaven  of  sky. 


156 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


Our  lives,  and  every  day  and  hour. 
One  symphony  appear: 

One  road,  one  garden — every  flower 
And  every  bramble  dear. 


XI 

IWIIL  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine  at  night. 

I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your  room, 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body  white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dewfall  at  night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is  near, 

The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear ! 

That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire, 

Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside  fire. 


XII 

WE  HAVE  LOVED  OF  YORE 
(to  an  air  of  dxabelli) 

BERRIED  brake  and  reedy  island, 

Heaven  below,  and  only  heaven  above, 
Through  the  sky’s  inverted  azure 

Softly  swam  the  boat  that  bore  our  love. 
Bright  were  your  eyes  as  the  day; 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


157 


Bright  ran  the  stream, 

Bright  hung  the  sky  above. 

Days  of  April,  airs  of  Eden, 

How  the  glory  died  through  golden  hours, 

And  the  shining  moon  arising 

How  the  boat  drew  homeward  filled  with  flowers ! 
Bright  were  your  eyes  in  the  night: 

We  have  lived,  my  love — 

O,  we  have  loved,  my  love. 

Frost  has  bound  our  flowing  river, 

Snow  has  whitened  all  our  island  brake, 

And  beside  the  winter  fagot 

Joan  and  Darby  doze  and  dream  and  wake. 

Still,  in  the  river  of  dreams 
Swims  the  boat  of  love — 

Hark  !  chimes  the  falling  oar  ! 

And  again  in  winter  evens 

When  on  firelight  dreaming  fancy  feeds. 

In  those  ears  of  aged  lovers 

Love’s  own  river  warbles  in  the  reeds, 

Love  still  the  past,  O,  my  love ! 

We  have  lived  of  yore, 

O,  we  have  loved  of  yore. 


158 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XIII 

DITTY 

(to  an  air  from  bach) 

THE  cock  shall  crow 

In  the  morning  grey. 

The  bugles  blow 

At  the  break  of  day: 

The  cock  shall  sing  and  the  merry  bugles  ring. 
And  all  the  little  brown  birds  sing  upon  the  spray. 

The  thorn  shall  blow 

In  the  month  of  May, 

And  my  love  shall  go 

In  her  holiday  array: 

But  I  shall  lie  in  the  kirkyard  nigh 
While  all  the  little  brown  birds  sing  upon  the  spray. 


XIV 

MATER  TRIUMPHANS 


SON  of  my  woman’s  body,  you  go,  to  the  drum  and  fife, 
To  taste  the  colour  of  love  and  the  other  side  of  life — 
From  out  of  the  dainty  the  rude,  the  strong  from  out  of 
the  frail, 

Eternally  through  the  ages  from  the  female  comes  the 
male. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


159 


The  ten  fingers  and  toes,  and  the  shell-like  nail  on  each, 

The  eyes  blind  as  gems  and  the  tongue  attempting  speech; 

Impotent  hands  in  my  bosom,  and  yet  they  shall  wield 
the  sword ! 

Drugged  with  slumber  and  milk,  you  wait  the  day  of 
the  Lord. 

Infant  bridegroom,  uncrowned  king,  unanointed  priest, 

Soldier,  lover,  explorer,  I  see  you  nuzzle  the  breast. 

You  that  grope  in  my  bosom  shall  load  the  ladies  with 
rings, 

You,  that  came  forth  through  the  doors,  shall  burst  the 
doors  of  Kings. 


XV 


BRIGHT  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them, 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 

Still  they  are  carolled  and  said — 

On  wings  they  are  carried — 

After  the  singer  is  dead 
And  the  maker  buried. 


Low  as  the  singer  lies 
In  the  field  of  heather, 
Songs  of  his  fashion  bring 
The  swains  together. 

And  when  the  west  is  red 
With  the  sunset  embers, 
The  lover  lingers  and  sings 
And  the  maid  remembers. 


160 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 

XVI 


IN  the  highlands,  in  the  country  places, 

Where  the  old  plain  men  have  rosy  faces, 
And  the  young  fair  maidens 
Quiet  eyes; 

Where  essential  silence  cheers  and  blesses, 

And  for  ever  in  the  hill-recesses 
Her  more  lovely  music 
Broods  and  dies. 

O  to  mount  again  where  erst  I  haunted; 

Where  the  old  red  hills  are  bird-enchanted. 

And  the  low  green  meadows 
Bright  with  sward; 

And  when  even  dies,  the  million-tinted. 

And  the  night  has  come,  and  planets  glinted, 

Lo !  the  valley  hollowg 
Lamp-bestarred. 

O  to  dream,  O  to  awake  and  wander 
There,  and  with  delight  to  take  and  render. 
Through  the  trance  of  silence. 

Quiet  breath; 

Lo !  for  there,  among  the  flowers  and  grasses. 
Only  the  mightier  movement  sounds  and  passes; 
Only  winds  and  rivers, 

Life  and  death. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


161 


XVII 

(to  the  tune  of  wandering  willie) 


h 


OME  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I  wander  ? 
Hunger  my  driver,  I  go  where  I  must. 


Cold  blows  the  winter  wind  over  hill  and  heather; 

Thick  drives  the  rain,  and  my  roof  is  in  the  dust. 
Loved  of- wise  men  was  the  shade  of  my  roof-tree. 

The  true  word  of  welcome  was  spoken  in  the  door- 
Dear  days  of  old,  with  the  faces  in  the  firelight, 

Kind  folks  of  old,  you  come  again  no  more. 


Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  faces, 
Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child. 
Fire  and  the  windows  bright  glittered  on  the  moorland; 

Song,  tuneful  song,  built  a  palace  in  the  wild. 

Now,  when  day  dawns  on  the  brow  of  the  moorland. 
Lone  stands  the  house,  and  the  chimney-stone  is  cold. 
Lone  let  it  stand,  now  the  friends  are  all  departed, 

The  kind  hearts,  the  true  hearts,  that  loved  the  place 
of  old. 


Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moor-fowl, 
Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and 
flowers; 

Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley. 

Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours; 
Fair  the  day  shine  as  it  shone  on  my  childhood — 

Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door; 

Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney — 
But  I  go  for  ever  and  come  again  no  more. 


162 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XVIII 

TO  DR.  HAKE 
(on  receiving  a  copy  of  verses) 

IN  the  beloved  hour  that  ushers  day, 

In  the  pure  dew,  under  the  breaking  grey, 
One  bird,  ere  yet  the  woodland  quires  awake, 
With  brief  reveille  summons  all  the  brake: 
Chirp ,  chirp ,  it  goes;  nor  waits  an  answer  long; 
And  that  small  signal  fills  the  grove  with  song. 

Thus  on  my  pipe  I  breathed  a  strain  or  two; 

It  scarce  was  music,  but  ’twas  all  I  knew. 

It  was  not  music,  for  I  lacked  the  art, 

Yet  what  but  frozen  music  filled  my  heart? 
Chirp ,  chirp ,  I  went,  nor  hoped  a  nobler  strain; 
But  Heaven  decreed  I  should  not  pipe  in  vain. 
For,  lo !  not  far  from  there,  in  secret  dale, 

All  silent,  sat  an  ancient  nightingale. 

My  sparrow  notes  he  heard;  thereat  awoke; 
And  with  a  tide  of  song  his  silence  broke. 


XIX 

TO  - 

I  KNEW  thee  strong  and  quiet  like  the  hills; 

I  knew  thee  apt  to  pity,  brave  to  endure: 

In  peace  or  war  a  Roman  full  equip t. 

And  just  I  knew  thee,  like  the  fabled  kings 
Who  by  the  loud  sea-shore  gave  judgment  forth. 
From  dawn  to  eve,  bearded  and  few  of  words. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


163 


What,  what,  was  I  to  honour  thee?  A  child, 

A  youth  in  ardour  but  a  child  in  strength. 

Who  after  virtue’s  golden  chariot-wheels 
Runs  ever  panting,  nor  attains  the  goal. 

So  thought  I,  and  was  sorrowful  at  heart. 

Since  then  my  steps  have  visited  that  flood 
Along  whose  shore  the  numerous  footfalls  cease. 
The  voices  and  the  tears  of  life  expire. 

Thither  the  prints  go  down,  the  hero’s  way 
Trod  large  upon  the  sand,  the  trembling  maid’s: 
Nimrod  that  wound  his  trumpet  in  the  wood. 
And  the  poor,  dreaming  child,  hunter  of  flowers. 
That  here  his  hunting  closes  with  the  great: 

So  one  and  all  go  down,  nor  aught  returns. 

For  thee,  for  us,  the  sacred  river  waits; 

For  me,  the  unworthy,  thee,  the  perfect  friend. 
There  Blame  desists,  there  his  unfaltering  dogs 
He  from  the  chase  recalls,  and  homeward  rides; 
Yet  Praise  and  Love  pass  over  and  go  in. 

So  when,  beside  that  margin,  I  discard 
My  more  than  mortal  weakness,  and  with  thee 
Through  that  still  land  unfearing  I  advance: 

If  then  at  all  we  keep  the  touch  of  joy 
Thou  shalt  rejoice  to  find  me  altered — I, 

O  Felix,  to  behold  thee  still  unchanged. 


164 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XX 


THE  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear 
Thrills  unforgotten  yet;  the  morning  dew 
Lies  yet  undried  along  my  field  of  noon. 

But  now  I  pause  at  whiles  in  what  I  do, 

And  count  the  bell,  and  tremble  lest  I  hear 

(My  work  untrimmed)  the  sunset  gun  too  soon. 


XXI 


I  HAVE  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slope; 

I  have  endured  and  done  in  days  before; 

I  have  longed  for  all,  and  bid  farewell  to  hope; 

And  I  have  lived  and  loved,  and  closed  the  door. 

XXII 

I  YE  hears  with  gladdened  heart  the  thunder 
Peal,  and  loves  the  falling  dew; 

He  knows  the  earth  above  and  under — 

Sits  and  is  content  to  view. 

He  sits  beside  the  dying  ember, 

God  for  hope  and  man  for  friend. 

Content  to  see,  glad  to  remember. 

Expectant  of  the  certain  end. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


165 


XXIII 

THE  LOST  OCCASION 

FAREWELL,  fair  day  and  fading  light ! 

The  clay-born  here,  with  westward  sight, 
Marks  the  huge  sun  now  downward  soar. 
Farewell.  We  twain  shall  meet  no  more. 

Farewell.  I  watch  with  bursting  sigh 
My  late  contemned  occasion  die. 

I  linger  useless  in  my  tent: 

Farewell,  fair  day,  so  foully  spent ! 

Farewell,  fair  day.  If  any  God 
At  all  consider  this  poor  clod, 

He  who  the  fair  occasion  sent 
Prepared  and  placed  the  impediment. 

Let  him  diviner  vengeance  take — 

Give  me  to  sleep,  give  me  to  wake 
Girded  and  shod,  and  bid  me  play 
The  hero  in  the  coming  day ! 


XXIV 

IF  THIS  WERE  FAITH 


GOD,  if  this  were  enough, 

That  I  see  things  bare  to  the  buff 
And  up  to  the  buttocks  in  mire; 

That  I  ask  nor  hope  nor  hire, 


166 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


Nut  in  the  husk, 

Nor  dawn  beyond  the  dusk, 

Nor  life  beyond  death: 

God,  if  this  were  faith  ? 

Having  felt  thy  wind  in  my  face 
Spit  sorrow  and  disgrace. 

Having  seen  thine  evil  doom 
In  Golgotha  and  Khartoum, 

And  the  brutes,  the  work  of  thine  hands. 

Fill  with  injustice  lands 
And  stain  with  blood  the  sea: 

If  still  in  my  veins  the  glee 
Of  the  black  night  and  the  sun 
And  the  lost  battle,  run : 

If,  an  adept, 

The  iniquitous  lists  I  still  accept 

With  joy,  and  joy  to  endure  and  be  withstood, 

And  still  to  battle  and  perish  for  a  dream  of  good: 
God,  if  that  were  enough  ? 

If  to  feel,  in  the  ink  of  the  slough. 

And  the  sink  of  the  mire, 

Veins  of  glory  and  fire 

Run  through  and  transpierce  and  transpire. 

And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  in  every  part, 

And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart; 

To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men 
To  go  on  for  ever  and  fail  and  go  on  again, 

And  be  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arise, 

And  contend  for  the  shade  of  a  word  and  a  thing  not 
seen  with  the  eyes: 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


167 


With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night 

That  somehow  the  right  is  the  right 

And  the  smooth  shall  bloom  from  the  rough: 

Lord,  if  that  were  enough? 


XXV 

MY  WIFE 

TRUSTY,  dusky,  vivid,  true, 

With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble-dew. 
Steel-true  and  blade-straight, 

The  great  artificer 
Made  my  mate. 

Honour,  anger,  valour,  fire; 

A  love  that  life  could  never  tire. 

Death  quench  or  evil  stir, 

The  mighty  master 
Gave  to  her. 

Teacher,  tender,  comrade,  wife, 

A  fellow-farer  true  through  life. 
Heart-whole  and  soul-free 
The  august  father 
Gave  to  me. 


168 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XXVI 

WINTER 

IN  rigorous  hours,  when  down  the  iron  lane 
The  redbreast  looks  in  vain 
For  hips  and  haws, 

Lo,  shining  flowers  upon  my  window-pane 
The  silver  pencil  of  the  winter  draws. 

When  all  the  snowy  hill 
And  the  bare  woods  are  still; 

When  snipes  are  silent  in  the  frozen  bogs, 

And  all  the  garden  garth  is  whelmed  in  mire, 
Lo,  by  the  hearth,  the  laughter  of  the  logs — 
More  fair  than  roses,  lo,  the  flowers  of  fire ! 
Saranac  Lake. 

XXVII 

THE  stormy  evening  closes  now  in  vain, 

Loud  wails  the  wind  and  beats  the  driving  rain, 
While  here  in  sheltered  house 
With  fire-ypainted  walls, 

I  hear  the  wind  abroad, 

I  hark  the  calling  squalls — 

“Blow,  blow,”  I  cry,  “you  burst  your  cheeks  in  vain 
Blow,  blow,”  I  cry,  “my  love  is  home  again  !” 

Yon  ship  you  chase  perchance  but  yesternight 
Bore  still  the  precious  freight  of  my  delight, 

That  here  in  sheltered  house 
With  fire-ypainted  walls, 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


169 


Now  hears  the  wind  abroad. 

Now  harks  the  calling  squalls. 
“Blow,  blow,”  I  cry,  “in  vain  you  rouse  the  sea, 
My  rescued  sailor  shares  the  fire  with  me !” 


XXVIII 

TO  AN  ISLAND  PRINCESS 

SINCE  long  ago,  a  child  at  home, 

I  read  and  longed  to  rise  and  roam, 
Where’er  I  went,  whate’er  I  willed, 

One  promised  land  my  fancy  filled. 

Hence  the  long  roads  my  home  I  made; 
Tossed  much  in  ships:  have  often  laid 
Below  the  uncurtained  sky  my  head, 
Rain-deluged  and  wind-buffeted: 

And  many  a  thousand  hills  I  crossed 
And  corners  turned — Love’s  labour  lost, 
Till,  Lady,  to  your  isle  of  sun 
I  came,  not  hoping;  and,  like  one 
Snatched  out  of  blindness,  rubbed  my  eyes, 
And  hailed  my  promised  land  with  cries. 

Yes,  Lady,  here  I  was  at  last; 

Here  found  I  all  I  had  forecast: 

The  long  roll  of  the  sapphire  sea 
That  keeps  the  land’s  virginity; 

The  stalwart  giants  of  the  wood 
Laden  with  toys  and  flowers  and  food; 

The  precious  forest  pouring  out 
To  compass  the  whole  town  about; 


170 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


The  town  itself  with  streets  of  lawn, 
Loved  of  the  moon,  blessed  by  the  dawn, 
Where  the  brown  children  all  the  day 
Keep  up  a  ceaseless  noise  of  play, 

Play  in  the  sun,  play  in  the  rain, 

Nor  ever  quarrel  or  complain; — 

And  late  at  night,  in  the  woods  of  fruit, 
Hark !  do  you  hear  the  passing  flute  ? 

I  threw  one  look  to  either  hand. 

And  knew  I  was  in  Fairyland. 

And  yet  one  point  of  being  so, 

I  lacked.  For,  Lady  (as  you  know), 
Whoever  by  his  might  of  hand 
Won  entrance  into  Fairyland, 

Found  always  with  admiring  eyes 
A  Fairy  princess  kind  and  wise. 

It  was  not  long  I  waited;  soon 
Upon  my  threshold,  in  broad  noon, 

Fair  and  helpful,  wise  and  good, 

The  Fairy  Princess  Moe  stood. 

Tantira,  Tahiti,  Nov.  5,  1888. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


171 


XXIX 


TO  KALAKAUA 
(with  the  gift  of  a  pearl) 


THE  Silver  Ship,  my  King — that  was  her  name 

In  the  bright  islands  whence  your  fathers  came — 
The  Silver  Ship,  at  rest  from  winds  and  tides, 

Below  your  palace  in  your  harbour  rides: 

And  the  seafarers,  sitting  safe  on  shore, 

Like  eager  merchants  count  their  treasures  o’er. 

One  gift  they  find,  one  strange  and  lovely  thing, 

Now  doubly  precious  since  it  pleased  a  king. 


The  right,  my  liege,  is  ancient  as  the  lyre 
For  bards  to  give  to  kings  what  kings  admire. 
’Tis  mine  to  offer  for  Apollo’s  sake; 

And  since  the  gift  is  fitting,  yours  to  take. 

To  golden  hands  the  golden  pearl  I  bring: 

The  ocean  jewel  to  the  island  king. 

Honolulu,  Feb.  3,  1889. 

XXX 

TO  PRINCESS  KAIULANI 


FORTH  from  her  land  to  mine  she  goes, 
The  island  maid,  the  island  rose, 

Light  of  heart  and  bright  of  face: 

The  daughter  of  a  double  race. 

Her  islands  here,  in  Southern  sun. 

Shall  mourn  their  Kaiulani  gone, 

And  I,  in  her  dear  banyan  shade, 

Look  vainly  for  my  little  maid. 


172 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


But  our  Scots  islands  far  away 
Shall  glitter  with  unwonted  day, 

And  cast  for  once  their  tempests  by 
To  smile  in  Kaiulani’s  eye. 

Honolulu. 

Written  in  April  to  Kaiulani  in  the  April  of  her  age;  and  at  Waikiki, 
within  easy  walk  of  Kaiulani’s  banyan !  When  she  comes  to  my  land 
and  her  father’s,  and  the  rain  beats  upon  the  window  (as  I  fear  it  will), 
let  her  look  at  this  page;  it  will  be  like  a  weed  gathered  and  pressed  at 
home;  and  she  will  remember  her  own  islands,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
mighty  tree;  and  she  will  hear  the  peacocks  screaming  in  the  dusk  and 
the  wind  blowing  in  the  palms;  and  she  will  think  of  her  father  sitting 
there  alone. — 

R.  L.  S. 


XXXI 

TO  MOTHER  MARYANNE 


TO  see  the  infinite  pity  of  this  place, 

The  mangled  limb,  the  devastated  face, 
The  innocent  sufferer  smiling  at  the  rod — 

A  fool  were  tempted  to  deny  his  God. 

He  sees,  he  shrinks.  But  if  he  gaze  again, 

Lo,  beauty  springing  from  the  breast  of  pain ! 
He  marks  the  sisters  on  the  mournful  shores; 
And  even  a  fool  is  silent  and  adores. 

Guest  House,  Kalawao,  Molokai. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


178 


XXXII 

IN  ME  MORI  AM,  E.  H. 

I  KNEW  a  silver  head  was  bright  beyond  compare, 

I  knew  a  queen  of  toil  with  a  crown  of  silver  hair. 
Garland  of  valour  and  sorrow,  of  beauty  and  renown, 
Life,  that  honours  the  brave,  crowned  her  himself  with 
the  crown. 

The  beauties  of  youth  are  frail,  but  this  was  a  jewel  of  age. 
Life,  that  delights  in  the  brave,  gave  it  himself  for  a  gage. 
Fair  was  the  crown  to  behold,  and  beauty  its  poorest 
part — 

At  once  the  scar  of  the  wound  and  the  order  pinned  on 
the  heart. 


The  beauties  of  man  are  frail,  and  the  silver  lies  in  the  dust. 
And  the  queen  that  we  call  to  mind  sleeps  with  the  brave 
and  the  just; 

Sleeps  with  the  weary  at  length;  but,  honoured  and  ever 
fair, 

Shines  in  the  eye  of  the  mind  the  crown  of  the  silver  hair. 
Honolulu. 

XXXIII 


TO  MY  WIFE 

(a  fragment) 

IONG  must  elapse  ere  you  behold  again 

Green  forest  frame  the  entry  of  the  lane- 


The  wild  lane  with  the  bramble  and  the  briar. 
The  year-old  cart-tracks  perfect  in  the  mire, 


174 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


The  wayside  smoke,  perchance,  the  dwarfish  huts, 
And  ramblers’  donkey  drinking  from  the  ruts:-— 
Long  ere  you  trace  how  deviously  it  leads, 

Back  from  man’s  chimneys  and  the  bleating  meads 
To  the  woodland  shadow,  to  the  silvan  hush, 

When  but  the  brooklet  chuckles  in  the  brush — 
Back  from  the  sun  and  bustle  of  the  vale 
To  where  the  great  voice  of  the  nightingale 
Fills  all  the  forest  like  a  single  room, 

And  all  the  banks  smell  of  the  golden  broom; 

So  wander  on  until  the  eve  descends, 

And  back  returning  to  your  firelit  friends. 

You  see  the  rosy  sun,  despoiled  of  light, 

Hung,  caught  in  thickets,  like  a  schoolboy’s  kite. 

Here  from  the  sea  the  unfruitful  sun  shall  rise, 
Bathe  the  bare  deck  and  blind  the  unshielded  eyes; 
The  allotted  hours  aloft  shall  wheel  in  vain 
And  in  the  unpregnant  ocean  plunge  again. 

Assault  of  squalls  that  mock  the  watchful  guard. 
And  pluck  the  bursting  canvas  from  the  yard, 

And  senseless  clamour  of  the  calm,  at  night 
Must  mar  your  slumbers.  By  the  plunging  light 
In  beetle-haunted,  most  unwomanly  bower 
Of  the  wild-swerving  cabin,  hour  by  hour  .  .  . 

Schooner  Equator. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XXXIV 


TO  THE  MUSE 


RESIGN  the  rhapsody,  the  dream, 
'  To  men  of  larger  reach; 

Be  ours  the  quest  of  a  plain  theme, 
The  piety  of  speech. 


175 


As  monkish  scribes  from  morning  break 
Toiled  till  the  close  of  light, 

Nor  thought  a  day  too  long  to  make 
One  line  or  letter  bright: 


We  also  with  an  ardent  mind, 

Time,  wealth,  and  fame  forgot, 

Our  glory  in  our  patience  find 
And  skim,  and  skim  the  pot :  * 

Till  last,  when  round  the  house  we  hear 
The  evensong  of  birds. 

One  corner  of  blue  heaven  appear 
In  our  clear  well  of  words. 

Leave,  leave  it  then,  muse  of  my  heart ! 

Sans  finish  and  sans  frame, 

Leave  unadorned  by  needless  art 
The  picture  as  it  came. 

Apemama. 


176 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 

xxxv 


TO  MY  OLD  FAMILIARS 

DO  you  remember — can  we  e’er  forget? — 

How,  in  the  coiled  perplexities  of  youth, 

In  our  wild  climate,  in  our  scowling  town, 

We  gloomed  and  shivered,  sorrowed,  sobbed  and  feared? 
The  belching  winter  wind,  the  missile  rain, 

The  rare  and  welcome  silence  of  the  snows, 

The  laggard  morn,  the  haggard  day,  the  night, 

The  grimy  spell  of  the  nocturnal  town, 

Do  you  remember  ? — Ah,  could  one  forget ! 

As  when  the  fevered  sick  that  all  night  long 
Listed  the  wind  intone,  and  hear  at  last 
The  ever- welcome  voice  of  chanticleer 
Sing  in  the  bitter  hour  before  the  dawn, — 

With  sudden  ardour,  these  desire  the  day: 

So  sang  in  the  gloom  of  youth  the  bird  of  hope; 

So  we,  exulting,  hearkened  and  desired. 

For  lo !  as  in  the  palace  porch  of  life 
We  huddled  with  chimeras,  from  within — 

How  sweet  to  hear ! — the  music  swelled  and  fell, 

And  through  the  breach  of  the  revolving  doors 
What  dreams  of  splendour  blinded  us  and  fled ! 

I  have  since  then  contended  and  rejoiced; 

Amid  the  glories  of  the  house  of  life 
Profoundly  entered,  and  the  shrine  beheld: 

Yet  when  the  lamp  from  my  expiring  eyes 
Shall  dwindle  and  recede,  the  voice  of  love 
Fall  insignificant  on  my  closing  ears, 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


177 


What  sound  shall  come  but  the  old  cry  of  the  wind 

In  our  inclement  city?  what  return 

But  the  image  of  the  emptiness  of  youth, 

Filled  with  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  that  voice 
Of  discontent  and  rapture  and  despair? 

So,  as  in  darkness,  from  the  magic  lamp. 

The  momentary  pictures  gleam  and  fade 
And  perish,  and  the  night  resurges — these 
Shall  I  remember,  and  then  all  forget. 

Apemama. 


XXXVI 

THE  tropics  vanish,  and  meseems  that  I, 

From  Halkerside,  from  topmost  Allermuir, 

Or  steep  Caerketton,  dreaming  gaze  again. 

Far  set  in  fields  and  woods,  the  town  I  see 
Spring  gallant  from  the  shallows  of  her  smoke, 
Cragged,  spired,  and  turreted,  her  virgin  fort 
Beflagged.  About,  on  seaward-drooping  hills, 

New  folds  of  city  glitter.  Last,  the  Forth 
Wheels  ample  waters  set  with  sacred  isles, 

And  populous  Fife  smokes  with  a  score  of  towns. 
There,  on  the  sunny  frontage  of  a  hill, 

Hard  by  the  house  of  kings,  repose  the  dead, 

My  dead,  the  ready  and  the  strong  of  word. 

Their  works,  the  salt-encrusted,  still  survive; 

The  sea  bombards  their  founded  towers;  the  night 
Thrills  pierced  with  their  strong  lamps.  The  artificers, 
One  after  one,  here  in  this  grated  cell, 

Where  the  rain  erases  and  the  rust  consumes, 

Fell  upon  lasting  silence.  Continents 


178  SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 

And  continental  oceans  intervene; 

A  sea  uncharted,  on  a  lampless  isle, 

Environs  and  confines  their  wandering  child 
In  vain.  The  voice  of  generations  dead 
Summons  me,  sitting  distant,  to  arise, 

My  numerous  footsteps  nimbly  to  retrace, 

And  all  mutation  over,  stretch  me  down 
In  that  denoted  city  of  the  dead. 

Apemama. 

XXXVII 
TO  S.  C.1 

I  HEARD  the  pulse  of  the  besieging  sea 

Throb  far  away  all  night.  I  heard  the  wind 
Fly  crying  and  convulse  tumultuous  palms. 

I  rose  and  strolled.  The  isle  was  all  bright  sand, 
And  flailing  fans  and  shadows  of  the  palm; 

The  heaven  all  moon  and  wind  and  the  blind  vault; 
The  keenest  planet  slain,  for  Venus  slept. 

The  king,  my  neighbour,  with  his  host  of  wives, 
Slept  in  the  precinct  of  the  palisade; 

Where  single,  in  the  wind,  under  the  moon, 

Among  the  slumbering  cabins,  blazed  a  fire. 

Sole  street-lamp  and  the  only  sentinel. 

To  other  lands  and  nights  my  fancy  turned — 

To  London  first,  and  chiefly  to  your  house, 

The  many-pillared  and  the  well-beloved. 

There  yearning  fancy  lighted;  there  again 
In  the  upper  room  I  lay,  and  heard  far  off 


1  Sidney  Colvin. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


179 


The  unsleeping  city  murmur  like  a  shell; 

The  muffled  tramp  of  the  Museum  guard 
Once  more  went  by  me;  I  beheld  again 
Lamps  vainly  brighten  the  dispeopled  street; 
Again  I  longed  for  the  returning  morn, 

The  awaking  traffic,  the  bestirring  birds, 

The  consentaneous  trill  of  tiny  song 
That  weaves  round  monumental  cornices 
A  passing  charm  of  beauty.  Most  of  all. 

For  your  light  foot  I  wearied,  and  your  knock 
That  was  the  glad  reveille  of  my  day. 

Lo,  now,  'when  to  your  task  in  the  great  house 
At  morning  through  the  portico  you  pass, 

One  moment  glance,  where  by  the  pillared  wall 
Far- voyaging  island  gods,  begrimed  with  smoke, 
Sit  now  un worshipped,  the  rude  monument 
Of  faiths  forgot  and  races  undivined 
Sit  now  disconsolate,  remembering  well 
The  priest,  the  victim,  and  the  songful  crowd, 
The  blaze  of  the  blue  noon,  and  that  huge  voice 
Incessant,  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore. 

As  far  as  these  from  their  ancestral  shrine, 

So  far,  so  foreign,  your  divided  friends 
Wander,  estranged  in  body,  not  in  mind. 


Apemama. 


180 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XXXVIII 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TEMBINOKA 


At  my  departure  from  the  island  of  Apemama,  for  which  you  will 


look  in  vain  in  most  atlases,  the  King  and  I  agreed,  since  we  both  set 
up  to  be  in  the  poetical  way,  that  we  should  celebrate  our  separation 
in  verse.  Whether  or  not  his  Majesty  has  been  true  to  his  bargain,  the 
laggard  posts  of  the  Pacific  may  perhaps  inform  me  in  six  months,  per¬ 
haps  not  before  a  year.  The  following  lines  represent  my  part  of  the 
contract,  and  it  is  hoped,  by  their  pictures  of  strange  manners,  they  may 
entertain  a  civilised  audience.  Nothing  throughout  has  been  invented 
or  exaggerated;  the  lady  herein  referred  to  as  the  author’s  muse  has 
confined  herself  to  stringing  into  rhyme  facts  or  legends  that  I  saw  or 
heard  during  two  months’  residence  upon  the  island. — R.  L.  S. 


ENVOI 


ET  us ,  who  part  like  brothers ,  part  like  bards ; 


i  ^  And  you  in  your  tongue  and  measure ,  I  in  mine , 
Our  now  division  duly  solemnise. 

Unlike  the  strains ,  and  yet  the  theme  is  one : 

The  strains  unlike ,  and  how  unlike  their  fate! 

You  to  the  blinding  palace-yard  shall  call 
The  prefect  of  the  singers ,  and  to  him , 

Listening  devout ,  your  valedictory  verse 
Deliver  ;  he ,  his  attribute  fulfilled , 

To  the  island  chorus  hand  your  measures  on , 

Wed  now  with  harmony :  so  them ,  at  last, 

Night  after  night ,  in  the  open  hall  of  dance , 

Shall  thirty  matted  men,  to  the  clapped  hand, 

Intone  and  bray  and  bark.  Unfortunate  ! 

Paper  and  print  alone  shall  honour  mine. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 

THE  SONG 

Let  now  the  King  his  ear  arouse 

And  toss  the  bosky  ringlets  from  his  brows, 

The  while,  our  bond  to  implement. 

My  muse  relates  and  praises  his  descent. 

i 

Bride  of  the  shark,  her  valour  first  I  sing 
Who  on  the  lone  seas  quickened  of  a  King. 

She,  from  the  shore  and  puny  homes  of  men, 
Beyond  the  climber’s  sea-discerning  ken, 

Swam,  led  by  omens;  and  devoid  of  fear, 

Beheld  her  monstrous  paramour  draw  near. 

She  gazed;  all  round  her  to  the  heavenly  pale, 
The  simple  sea  was  void  of  isle  or  sail — 

Sole  overhead  the  unsparing  sun  was  reared — 
When  the  deep  bubbled  and  the  brute  appeared. 
But  she,  secure  in  the  decrees  of  fate, 

Made  strong  her  bosom  and  received  the  mate. 
And,  men  declare,  from  that  marine  embrace 
Conceived  the  virtues  of  a  stronger  race. 

ii 

Her  stern  descendant  next  I  praise, 

Survivor  of  a  thousand  frays: — 

In  the  hall  of  tongues  who  ruled  the  throng ; 

Led  and  was  trusted  by  the  strong ; 

And  when  spears  were  in  the  wood, 

Like  a  tower  of  vantage  stood 
Whom,  not  till  seventy  years  had  sped, 


181 


182 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


Unscarred  of  breast,  erect  of  bead, 

Still  light  of  step,  still  bright  of  look, 
The  hunter,  Death,  had  overtook. 

hi 

His  sons,  the  brothers  twain,  I  sing, 

Of  whom  the  elder  reigned  a  King. 

No  Childeric  he,  yet  much  declined 
From  his  rude  sire’s  imperious  mind, 
Until  his  day  came  when  he  died, 

He  lived,  he  reigned,  he  versified. 

But  chiefly  him  I  celebrate 
That  was  the  pillar  of  the  state, 

Ruled,  wise  of  word  and  bold  of  mien. 
The  peaceful  and  the  warlike  scene; 

And  played  alike  the  leader’s  part 
In  lawful  and  unlawful  art. 

His  soldiers  with  emboldened  ears 
Heard  him  laugh  among  the  spears. 

He  could  deduce  from  age  to  age 
The  wTeb  of  island  parentage; 

Best  lay  the  rhyme,  best  lead  the  dance. 
For  any  festal  circumstance: 

And  fitly  fashion  oar  and  boat, 

A  palace  or  an  armour  coat. 

None  more  availed  than  he  to  raise 
The  strong,  suffumigating  blaze 
Or  knot  the  wizard  leaf:  none  more. 
Upon  the  untrodden  windward  shore 
Of  the  isle,  beside  the  beating  main. 

To  cure  the  sickly  and  constrain, 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


183 


With  muttered  words  and  waving  rods, 
The  gibbering  and  the  whistling  gods. 
But  he,  though  thus  with  hand  and  head 
He  ruled,  commanded,  charmed,  and  led. 
And  thus  in  virtue  and  in  might 
Towered  to  contemporary  sight — 

Still  in  fraternal  faith  and  love. 

Remained  below  to  reach  above, 

Gave  and  obeyed  the  apt  command. 

Pilot  and  vassal  of  the  land. 

IV 

My  Tembinok’,  from  men  like  these 
Inherited  his  palaces, 

His  right  to  rule,  his  powers  of  mind, 

His  cocoa-islands  sea-enshrined. 

Stern  bearer  of  the  sword  and  whip, 

A  master  passed  in  mastership, 

He  learned,  without  the  spur  of  need, 

To  write,  to  cipher,  and  to  read; 

From  all  that  touch  on  his  prone  shore 
Augments  his  treasury  of  lore, 

Eager  in  age  as  erst  in  youth 
To  catch  an  art,  to  learn  a  truth, 

To  paint  on  the  internal  page 
A  clearer  picture  of  the  age. 

His  age,  you  say  P  But  ah,  not  so ! 

In  his  lone  isle  of  long  ago, 

A  royal  Lady  of  Shalott, 

Sea-sundered,  he  beholds  it  not; 

He  only  hears  it  far  away. 


184 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


The  stress  of  equatorial  day 
He  suffers;  he  records  the  while 
The  vapid  annals  of  the  isle; 

Slaves  bring  him  praise  of  his  renown, 

Or  cackle  of  the  palm-tree  town; 

The  rarer  ship  and  the  rare  boat. 

He  marks;  and  only  hears  remote, 

Where  thrones  and  fortunes  rise  and  reel, 
The  thunder  of  the  turning  wheel. 

v 

For  the  unexpected  tears  he  shed 
At  my  departing,  may  his  lion  head 
Not  wrhiten,  his  revolving  years 
No  fresh  occasion  minister  of  tears; 

At  book  or  cards,  at  work  or  sport, 

Him  may  the  breeze  across  the  palace  court 

For  ever  fan;  and  swelling  near 

For  ever  the  loud  song  divert  his  ear. 

Schooner  Equator,  at  Sea. 


XXXIX 


THE  WOODMAN 

IN  all  the  grove,  nor  stream  nor  bird 
Nor  aught  beside  my  blows  was  heard, 
And  the  woods  wore  their  noonday  dress — 
The  glory  of  their  silentness. 

From  the  island  summit  to  the  seas, 

Trees  mounted,  and  trees  drooped,  and  trees 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


185 


Groped  upward  in  the  gaps.  The  green 
Inarboured  talus  and  ravine 
By  fathoms.  By  the  multitude 
The  rugged  columns  of  the  wood 
And  bunches  of  the  branches  stood: 

Thick  as  a  mob,  deep  as  a  sea. 

And  silent  as  eternity. 

With  lowered  axe,  with  backward  head, 

Late  from  this  scene  my  labourer  fled, 

And  with  a  ravelled  tale  to  tell, 

Returned.  Some  denizen  of  hell, 

Dead  man  or  disinvested  god. 

Had  close  behind  him  peered  and  trod, 

And  triumphed  when  he  turned  to  flee. 

How  different  fell  the  lines  with  me ! 

Whose  eye  explored  the  dim  arcade 
Impatient  of  the  uncoming  shade — 

Shy  elf,  or  dryad  pale  and  cold, 

Or  mystic  lingerer  from  of  old: 

Vainly.  The  fair  and  stately  things, 
Impassive  as  departed  kings, 

All  still  in  the  wood’s  stillness  stood, 

And  dumb.  The  rooted  multitude 
Nodded  and  brooded,  bloomed  and  dreamed, 
Unmeaning,  undivined.  It  seemed 
No  other  art,  no  hope,  they  knew, 

Than  clutch  the  earth  and  seek  the  blue. 

’Mid  vegetable  king  and  priest 
And  stripling,  I  (the  only  beast) 

Was  at  the  beast’s  work,  killing;  hewed 


186 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


The  stubborn  roots  across,  bestrewed 
The  glebe  with  the  dislustred  leaves, 

And  bid  the  saplings  fall  in  sheaves; 

Bursting  across  the  tangled  math 
A  ruin  that  I  called  a  path, 

A  Golgotha  that,  later  on, 

When  rains  had  watered,  and  suns  shone, 

And  seeds  enriched  the  place,  should  bear 
And  be  called  garden.  Here  and  there, 

I  spied  and  plucked  by  the  green  hair 
A  foe  more  resolute  to  live, 

The  toothed  and  killing  sensitive. 

He,  semi-conscious,  fled  the  attack; 

He  shrank  and  tucked  his  branches  back; 

And  straining  by  his  anchor  strand, 

Captured  and  scratched  the  rooting  hand. 

I  saw  him  crouch,  I  felt  him  bite; 

And  straight  my  eyes  were  touched  with  sight. 
I  saw  the  wood  for  what  it  was: 

The  lost  and  the  victorious  cause, 

The  deadly  battle  pitched  in  line, 

Saw  silent  weapons  cross  and  shine: 

Silent  defeat,  silent  assault. 

A  battle  and  a  burial  vault. 

Thick  round  me  in  the  teeming  mud 
Briar  and  fern  strove  to  the  blood. 

The  hooked  liana  in  his  gin 
Noosed  his  reluctant  neighbours  in: 

There  the  green  murderer  throve  and  spread, 
Upon  his  smothering  victims  fed, 

And  wantoned  on  his  climbing  coil. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


187 


Contending  roots  fought  for  the  soil 
Like  frightened  demons:  with  despair 
Competing  branches  pushed  for  air. 

Green  conquerors  from  overhead 
Bestrode  the  bodies  of  their  dead: 

The  Caesars  of  the  silvan  field. 

Unused  to  fail,  foredoomed  to  yield: 

For  in  the  groins  of  branches,  lo ! 

The  cancers  of  the  orchid  grow. 

Silent  as  in  the  listed  ring 
Two  chartered  wrestlers  strain  and  cling, 
Dumb  as  by  yellow  Hooghly’s  side 
The  suffocating  captives  died: 

So  hushed  the  woodland  warfare  goes 
Unceasing;  and  the  silent  foes 
Grapple  and  smother,  strain  and  clasp 
Without  a  cry,  without  a  gasp. 

Here  also  sound  thy  fans,  O  God, 

Here  too  thy  banners  move  abroad: 
Forest  and  city,  sea  and  shore, 

And  the  whole  earth,  thy  threshing-floor ! 
The  drums  of  war,  the  drums  of  peace, 
Roll  through  our  cities  without  cease, 
And  all  the  iron  halls  of  life 
Ring  with  the  unremitting  strife. 

The  common  lot  we  scarce  perceive. 
Crowds  perish,  we  nor  mark  nor  grieve: 
The  bugle  calls — we  mourn  a  few ! 

What  corporal’s  guard  at  Waterloo? 
What  scanty  hundreds  more  or  less 


188 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


In  the  man-devouring  Wilderness? 

What  handful  bled  on  Delhi  ridge? 

— See,  rather,  London,  on  thy  bridge 
The  pale  battalions  trample  by, 

Resolved  to  slay,  resigned  to  die. 

Count,  rather,  all  the  maimed  and  dead 
In  the  unbrotherly  war  of  bread. 

See,  rather,  under  sultrier  skies 
What  vegetable  Londons  rise, 

And  teem,  and  suffer  without  sound. 

Or  in  your  tranquil  garden  ground, 
Contented,  in  the  falling  gloom, 

Saunter  and  see  the  roses  bloom. 

That  these  might  live,  what  thousands  died  ! 
All  day  the  cruel  hoe  was  plied; 

The  ambulance  barrow  rolled  all  day; 

Your  wife,  the  tender,  kind,  and  gay, 
Donned  her  long  gauntlets,  caught  the  spud 
And  bathed  in  vegetable  blood; 

And  the  long  massacre  now  at  end. 

See !  where  the  lazy  coils  ascend. 

See,  where  the  bonfire  sputters  red 
At  even,  for  the  innocent  dead. 

Why  prate  of  peace?  when,  warriors  all, 

We  clank  in  harness  into  hall. 

And  ever  bare  upon  the  board 
Lies  the  necessary  sword. 

In  the  green  field  or  quiet  street. 

Besieged  we  sleep,  beleaguered  eat, 

Labour  by  day  and  wake  o’  nights. 

In  war  with  rival  appetites. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


189 


The  rose  on  roses  feeds;  the  lark 
On  larks.  The  sedentary  clerk 
All  morning  with  a  diligent  pen 
Murders  the  babes  of  other  men; 

And  like  the  beasts  of  wood  and  park. 
Protects  his  whelps,  defends  his  den. 

Unshamed  the  narrow  aim  I  hold; 

I  feed  my  sheep,  patrol  my  fold; 
Breathe  war  on  wolves  and  rival  flocks, 
A  pious  outlaw  on  the  rocks 
Of  God  and  morning;  and  when  time 
Shall  bow,  or  rivals  break  me,  climb 
Where  no  undubbed  civilian  dares, 

In  my  war  harness,  the  loud  stairs 
Of  honour;  and  my  conqueror 
Hail  me  a  warrior  fallen  in  war. 

Vailima. 


XL 

TROPIC  RAIN 

AS  the  single  pang  of  the  blow,  when  the  metal  is 
•  mingled  well, 

Rings  and  lives  and  resounds  in  all  the  bounds  of  the  bell : 
So  the  thunder  above  spoke  with  a  single  tongue. 

So  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  the  sound  of  it  rumbled 
and  clung. 

Sudden  the  thunder  was  drowned — quenched  was  the 
levin  light — 

And  the  angel-spirit  of  rain  laughed  out  loud  in  the  night. 


190 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


Loud  as  the  maddened  river  raves  in  the  cloven  glen, 

Angel  of  rain  !  you  laughed  and  leaped  on  the  roofs  of  men ; 

And  the  sleepers  sprang  in  their  beds,  and  joyed  and 
feared  as  you  fell. 

You  struck,  and  my  cabin  quailed;  the  roof  of  it  roared 
like  a  bell, 

You  spoke,  and  at  once  the  mountain  shouted  and  shook 
with  brooks. 

You  ceased,  and  the  day  returned,  rosy,  with  virgin  looks. 

And  methought  that  beauty  and  terror  are  only  one, 
not  two; 

And  the  world  has  room  for  love,  and  death,  and  thun¬ 
der,  and  dew; 

And  all  the  sinews  of  hell  slumber  in  summer  air; 

And  the  face  of  God  is  a  rock,  but  the  face  of  the  rock 
is  fair. 

Beneficent  streams  of  tears  flow  at  the  finger  of  pain; 

And  out  of  the  cloud  that  smites,  beneficent  rivers  of  rain. 

Vailima. 


XLI 


AN  END  OF  TRAVEL 


1ET  now  your  soul  in  this  substantial  world 

Some  anchor  strike.  Be  here  the  body  moored 
This  spectacle  immutably  from  now 
The  picture  in  your  eye;  and  when  time  strikes, 

And  the  green  scene  goes  on  the  instant  blind — 

The  ultimate  helpers,  where  your  horse  to-day 
Conveyed  you  dreaming,  bear  your  body  dead. 
Vailima. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


191 


XLII 

WE  uncommiserate  pass  into  the  night 

From  the  loud  banquet,  and  departing  leave 
A  tremor  in  men’s  memories,  faint  and  sweet 
And  frail  as  music.  Features  of  our  face, 

The  tones  of  the  voice,  the  touch  of  the  loved  hand, 
Perish  and  vanish,  one  by  one,  from  earth: 
Meanwhile,  in  the  hall  of  song,  the  multitude 
Applauds  the  new  performer.  One,  perchance, 

One  ultimate  survivor  lingers  on, 

And  smiles,  and  to  his  ancient  heart  recalls 
The  long  forgotten.  Ere  the  morrow  die, 

He  too,  returning,  through  the  curtain  comes, 

And  the  new  age  forgets  us  and  goes  on. 


XLIII 

THE  LAST  SIGHT 

ONCE  more  I  saw  him.  In  the  lofty  room, 

Where  oft  with  lights  and  company  his  tongue 
Was  trump  to  honest  laughter,  sate  attired 
A  something  in  his  likeness. — “Look  !”  said  one, 
Unkindly  kind,  “look  up,  it  is  your  boy  !” 

And  the  dread  changeling  gazed  on  me  in  vain. 


192 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


XLIV 


SING  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I  ? 

Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Mull  was  astern,  Rum  on  the  port, 

Egg  on  the  starboard  bow; 

Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  soul: 

Where  is  that  glory  now? 


Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 

Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Give  me  again  all  that,  was  there, 
Give  me  the  sun  that  shone  ! 

Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul. 
Give  me  the  lad  that’s  gone ! 


Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 

Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 


Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas, 
Mountains  of  rain  and  sun, 

All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 
All  that  was  me  is  gone. 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


193 


XLV 

TO  S.  R.  CROCKETT 
(in  reply  to  a  dedication) 

BLOWS  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain 
are  flying, 

Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and  now. 

Where  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  whaups  are 
crying, 

My  heart  remembers  how ! 

Grey  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places. 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant  wine-red  moor. 

Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  homes  of  the  silent  vanished  races, 
And  winds,  austere  and  pure: 

Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in  dying. 

Hills  of  home !  and  to  hear  again  the  call; 

Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  peewees  crying, 
And  hear  no  more  at  all. 

Vailima. 


XLVI 

EVENSONG 


THE  embers  of  the  day  are  red 
Beyond  the  murky  hill. 

The  kitchen  smokes:  the  bed 
In  the  darkling  house  is  spread: 
The  great  sky  darkens  overhead, 


194 


SONGS  OF  TRAVEL 


And  the  great  woods  are  shrill. 

So  far  have  I  been  led. 

Lord,  by  Thy  will: 

So  far  I  have  followed.  Lord,  and  wondered  still. 

The  breeze  from  the  embalmed  land 
Blows  sudden  toward  the  shore, 

And  claps  my  cottage  door. 

I  hear  the  signal,  Lord — I  understand. 

The  night  at  Thy  command 

Comes.  I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  will  not  question  more. 
Vailima. 


IV 


BALLADS 

THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 
THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 
TICONDEROGA 
HEATHER  ALE 
CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 


The  first  collected  edition  of  Ballads  appeared 
in  1890.  Ticonderoga  was  originally  published  in 
Scribner's  Magazine,  December,  1887. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 

A  LEGEND  OF  TAHITI 


TO  ORI  A  ORI 


Ori,  my  brother  in  the  island  mode , 

In  every  tongue  and  meaning  much  my  friend , 

This  story  of  your  country  and  your  clan, 

In  your  loved  house,  your  too  much  honoured  guest, 

I  made  in  English.  Take  it,  being  done; 

And  let  me  sign  it  with  the  name  you  gave. 

TERIITERA. 


> 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 

A  LEGEND  OF  TAHITI 
l 

THE  SLAYING  OF  TAMATEA 

IT  fell  in  the  days  of  old,  as  the  men  of  Taiarapu  tell, 
A  youth  went  forth  to  the  fishing,  and  fortune 
favoured  him  well. 

Tamatea  his  name:  gullible,  simple,  and  kind, 

Comely  of  countenance,  nimble  of  body,  empty  of  mind, 
His  mother  ruled  him  and  loved  him  beyond  the  wont  of 
a  wife, 

Serving  the  lad  for  eyes  and  living  herself  in  his  life. 
Alone  from  the  sea  and  the  fishing  came  Tamatea  the  fair, 
Urging  his  boat  to  the  beach,  and  the  mother  awaited  him 
there, 

— “  Long  may  you  live  !  ”  said  she.  “  Your  fishing  has  sped 
to  a  wish. 

And  now  let  us  choose  for  the  king  the  fairest  of  all  your 
fish. 

For  fear  inhabits  the  palace  and  grudging  grows  in  the 
land, 

Marked  is  the  sluggardly  foot  and  marked  the  niggardly 
hand. 

The  hours  and  the  miles  are  counted,  the  tributes  num¬ 
bered  and  weighed, 

And  woe  to  him  that  comes  short,  and  woe  to  him  that 
delayed !” 


199 


200  BALLADS 

So  spake  on  the  beach  the  mother,  and  counselled  the 
wiser  thing. 

For  Rahero  stirred  in  the  country  and  secretly  mined  the 
king. 

Nor  were  the  signals  wanting  of  how  the  leaven  wrought, 

In  the  cords  of  obedience  loosed  and  the  tributes  grudg¬ 
ingly  brought. 

And  when  last  to  the  temple  of  Oro  the  boat  wdth  the  vic¬ 
tim  sped, 

And .  the  priest  uncovered  the  basket  and  looked  on  the 
face  of  the  dead, 

Trembling  fell  upon  all  at  sight  of  an  ominous  thing, 

For  there  was  the  aito1  dead,  and  he  of  the  house  of  the 
king. 

So  spake  on  the  beach  the  mother,  matter  worthy  of  note, 

And  wattled  a  basket  well,  and  chose  a  fish  from  the  boat; 

And  Tama  tea  the  pliable  shouldered  the  basket  and 
went, 

And  travelled,  and  sang  as  he  travelled,  a  lad  that  was 
well  content. 

Still  the  way  of  his  going  was  round  by  the  roaring  coast, 

Where  the  ring  of  the  reef  is  broke  and  the  trades  run  riot 
the  most. 

On  his  left,  with  smoke  as  of  battle,  the  billows  battered 
the  land; 

Unscalable,  turreted  mountains  rose  on  the  inner  hand. 

And  cape,  and  village,  and  river,  and  vale,  and  moun¬ 
tain  above. 

Each  had  a  name  in  the  land  for  men  to  remember  and 
love; 

And  never  the  name  of  a  place,  but  lo  !  a  song  in  its  praise : 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 


201 


Ancient  and  unforgotten,  songs  of  the  earlier  days, 

That  the  elders  taught  to  the  young,  and  at  night,  in  the 
full  of  the  moon, 

Garlanded  boys  and  maidens  sang  together  in  tune. 

Tamatea  the  placable  went  with  a  lingering  foot; 

He  sang  as  loud  as  a  bird,  he  whistled  hoarse  as  a  flute; 

He  broiled  in  the  sun,  he  breathed  in  the  grateful  shadow 
of  trees. 

In  the  icy  stream  of  the  rivers  he  waded  over  the  knees; 

And  still  in  his  empty  mind  crowded,  a  thousandfold, 

The  deeds  of  the  strong  and  the  songs  of  the  cunning 
heroes  of  old. 

And  now  was  he  come  to  a  place  Taiarapu  honoured  the 
most, 

Where  a  silent  valley  of  the  woods  debouched  on  the  noisy 
coast, 

Spewing  a  level  river.  There  was  a  haunt  of  Pai.2 

There,  in  his  potent  youth,  when  his  parents  drove  him 
to  die, 

Honoura  lived  like  a  beast,  lacking  the  lamp  and  the 
fire, 

Washed  by  the  rains  of  the  trade  and  clotting  his  hair  in 
the  mire; 

And  there,  so  mighty  his  hands,  he  bent  the  tree  to  his 
foot — 

So  keen  the  spur  of  his  hunger,  he  plucked  it  naked  of 
fruit. 

There,  as  she  pondered  the  clouds  for  the  shadow  of 
coming  ills, 

Ahupu,  the  woman  of  song,  walked  on  high  on  the 
hills. 


202 


BALLADS 


Of  these  was  Rahero  sprung,  a  man  of  a  godly  race; 

And  inherited  cunning  of  spirit  and  beauty  of  body  and 
face. 

Of  yore  in  his  youth,  as  an  aito,  Rahero  wandered  the 
land, 

Delighting  maids  with  his  tongue,  smiting  men  with  his 
hand. 

Famous  he  was  in  his  youth;  but  before  the  midst  of  his 
life 

Paused,  and  fashioned  a  song  of  farewell  to  glory  and 
strife. 

House  of  mine  (it  went),  house  upon  the  sea , 

Belov  d  of  all  my  fathers ,  more  belov’d  by  me  ! 

Vale  of  the  strong  Honour  a,  deep  ravine  of  Pai, 

Again  in  your  woody  summits  I  hear  the  trade-wind  cry. 

House  of  mine ,  in  your  walls ,  strong  sounds  the  sea , 

Of  all  sounds  on  earthy  dearest  sound  to  me. 

I  have  heard  the  applause  of  men ,  I  have  heard  it  arise  and 
die : 

Sweeter  now  in  my  house  I  hear  the  trade-wind  cry. 

These  were  the  words  of  his  singing,  other  the  thought 
of  his  heart; 

For  secret  desire  of  glory  vexed  him,  dwelling  apart. 

Lazy  and  crafty  he  was,  and  loved  to  lie  in  the  sun. 

And  loved  the  cackle  of  talk  and  the  true  word  uttered 
in  fun; 

Lazy  he  was,  his  roof  was  ragged,  his  table  was  lean. 

And  the  fish  swam  safe  in  his  sea,  and  he  gathered  the 
near  and  the  green. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO  203 

He  sat  in  his  house  and  laughed,  but  he  loathed  the  king 
of  the  land, 

And  he  uttered  the  grudging  word  under  the  covering 
hand. 

Treason  spread  from  his  door;  and  he  looked  for  a  day  to 
come, 

A  day  of  the  crowding  people,  a  day  of  the  summoning 
drum, 

When  the  vote  should  be  taken,  the  king  be  driven  forth 
in  disgrace, 

And  Rahero,  the  laughing  and  lazy,  sit  and  rule  in  his 
place. 

Here  Tamatea  came,  and  beheld  the  house  on  the  brook; 

And  Rahero  was  there  by  the  way  and  covered  an  oven 
to  cook.3 

Naked  he  was  to  the  loins,  but  the  tattoo  covered  the 
lack, 

And  the  sun  and  the  shadow  of  palms  dappled  his  muscu¬ 
lar  back. 

Swiftly  he  lifted  his  head  at  the  fall  of  the  coming  feet. 

And  the  water  sprang  in  his  mouth  with  a  sudden  desire 
of  meat; 

For  he  marked  the  basket  carried,  covered  from  flies  and 
the  sun;4 

And  Rahero  buried  his  fire,  but  the  meat  in  his  house  was 
done. 

Forth  he  stepped;  and  took,  and  delayed  the  boy,  by  the 
hand; 

And  vaunted  the  joys  of  meat  and  the  ancient  ways  of 
the  land: 


204 


BALLADS 


> — “Our  sires  of  old  in  Taiarapu,  they  that  created  the 
race, 

Ate  ever  with  eager  hand,  nor  regarded  season  or  place, 

Ate  in  the  boat  at  the  oar,  on  the  way  afoot;  and 
at  night 

Arose  in  the  midst  of  dreams  to  rummage  the  house  for 
a  bite. 

It  is  good  for  the  youth  in  his  turn  to  follow  the  way  of 
the  sire; 

And  behold  how  fitting  the  time !  for  here  do  I  cover  my 
fire.” 

— “I  see  the  fire  for  the  cooking,  but  never  the  meat  to 
cook,” 

Said  Tama  tea. — “Tut!”  said  Rahero.  “  Llere  in  the 
brook 

And  there  in  the  tumbling  sea,  the  fishes  are  thick  as 
flies. 

Hungry  like  healthy  men,  and  like  pigs  for  savour  and 
size: 

Crayfish  crowding  the  river,  sea-fish  thronging  the  sea.” 

— “Well  it  may  be,”  says  the  other,  “and  yet  be  nothing 
to  me. 

Fain  would  I  eat,  but  alas !  I  have  needful  matter  in 
hand. 

Since  I  carry  my  tribute  of  fish  to  the  jealous  king  of  the 
land.” 

Now  at  the  word  a  light  sprang  in  Rahero ’s  eyes. 

“I  will  gain  me  a  dinner,”  thought  he,  “and  lend  the  king 
a  surprise.” 

And  he  took  the  lad  by  the  arm,  as  they  stood  by  the  side 
of  the  track, 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 


205 


And  smiled,  and  rallied,  and  flattered,  and  pushed  him 
forward  and  back. 

It  was  “You  that  sing  like  a  bird,  I  never  have  heard  you 
sing,” 

And  “The  lads  when  I  was  a  lad  wTere  none  so  feared  of 
a  king. 

And  of  what  account  is  an  hour,  when  the  heart  is  empty 
of  guile? 

Rut  come,  and  sit  in  the  house  and  laugh  with  the  women 
a  while; 

And  I  will  but  drop  my  hook,5  and  behold !  the  dinner 
made.” 


So  Tamatea  the  pliable  hung  up  his  fish  in  the  shade 

On  a  tree  by  the  side  of  the  way;  and  Rahero  carried 
him  in, 

Smiling  as  smiles  the  fowler  when  flutters  the  bird  to  the 
gin, 

And  chose  him  a  shining  hook,  and  viewed  it  with  sedulous 
eye, 

And  breathed  and  burnished  it  well  on  the  brawn  of  his 
naked  thigh, 

And  set  a  mat  for  the  gull,  and  bade  him  be  merry  and 
bide, 

Like  a  man  concerned  for  his  guest,  and  the  fishing,  and 
nothing  beside. 


Now  when  Rahero  was  forth,  he  paused  and  hearkened, 
and  heard 

The  gull  jest  in  the  house  and  the  women  laugh  at  his 
word; 


206  BALLADS 

And  stealthily  crossed  to  the  side  of  the  way,  to  the 
shady  place 

Where  the  basket  hung  on  a  mango;  and  craft  transfigured 
his  face. 

Deftly  he  opened  the  basket,  and  took  of  the  fat  of  the 
fish, 

The  cut  of  kings  and  chieftains,  enough  for  a  goodly  dish. 

This  he  wrapped  in  a  leaf,  set  on  the  fire  to  cook, 

And  buried;  and  next  the  marred  remains  of  the  tribute  he 
took, 

And  doubled  and  packed  them  well,  and  covered  the 
basket  close. 

— “There  is  a  buffet,  my  king,”  quoth  he,  “and  a 
nauseous  dose!” — 

And  hung  the  basket  again  in  the  shade,  in  a  cloud  of 
flies; 

— “And  there  is  a  sauce  to  your  dinner,  king  of  the  crafty 
eyes !” 

Soon  as  the  oven  was  open,  the  fish  smelt  excellent  good. 

In  the  shade,  by  the  house  of  Rahero,  down  they  sat  to 
their  food, 

And  cleared  the  leaves6  in  silence,  or  uttered  a  jest  and 
laughed. 

And  raising  the  cocoa-nut  bowls,  buried  their  faces  and 
quaffed. 

But  chiefly  in  silence  they  ate;  and  soon  as  the  meal  was 
done, 

Rahero  feigned  to  remember  and  measured  the  hour  by 
the  sun, 

And  “Tamatea,”  quoth  he,  “it  is  time  to  be  jogging,  my 
lad.” 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 


207 


So  Tama  tea  arose,  doing  ever  the  thing  he  was  bade, 

And  carelessly  shouldered  the  basket,  and  kindly  saluted 
his  host; 

And  again  the  way  of  his  going  was  round  by  the  roaring 
coast. 

Long  he  went;  and  at  length  was  aware  of  a  pleasant 
green, 

And  the  stems  and  shadows  of  palms,  and  roofs  of  lodges 
between. 

There  sate,  in  the  door  of  his  palace,  the  king  on  a  kingly 
seat. 

And  aitos  stood  armed  around,  and  the  yottowas7  sat  at 
his  feet. 

But  fear  was  a  worm  in  his  heart:  fear  darted  his  eyes; 

And  he  probed  men’s  faces  for  treasons  and  pondered  their 
speech  for  lies. 

To  him  came  Tamatea,  the  basket  slung  in  his  hand. 

And  paid  him  the  due  obeisance  standing  as  vassals  stand. 

In  silence  hearkened  the  king,  and  closed  the  eyes  in  his 
face, 

Harbouring  odious  thoughts  and  the  baseless  fears  of  the 
base; 

In  silence  accepted  the  gift  and  sent  the  giver  away. 

So  Tamatea  departed,  turning  his  back  on  the  day. 

And  lo !  as  the  king  sat  brooding,  a  rumour  rose  in  the 
crowd; 

The  yottowas  nudged  and  wdiispered,  the  commons  mur¬ 
mured  aloud; 

Tittering  fell  upon  all  at  sight  of  the  impudent  thing. 

At  the  sight  of  a  gift  unroyal  flung  in  the  face  of  a  king. 

And  the  face  of  the  king  turned  white  and  red  with  anger 
and  shame 


208  BALLADS 

In  their  midst;  and  the  heart  in  his  body  was  water  and 
then  was  flame; 

Till  of  a  sudden,  turning,  he  gripped  an  aito  hard, 

A  youth  that  stood  with  his  omare,8  one  of  the  daily 
guard, 

And  spat  in  his  ear  a  command,  and  pointed  and 
uttered  a  name, 

And  hid  in  the  shade  of  the  house  his  impotent  anger 
and  shame. 

Now  Tama  tea  the  fool  was  far  on  the  homeward  way, 

The  rising  night  in  his  face,  behind  him  the  dying  day. 

Rahero  saw  him  go  by,  and  the  heart  of  Rahero  was  glad, 

Devising  shame  to  the  king  and  nowise  harm  to  the  lad; 

And  all  that  dwelt  by  the  way  saw  and  saluted  him  well, 

For  he  had  the  face  of  a  friend  and  the  news  of  the  town 
to  tell; 

And  pleased  with  the  notice  of  folk,  and  pleased  that  his 
journey  was  done, 

Tamatea  drew  homeward,  turning  his  back  to  the  sun. 

And  now  was  the  hour  of  the  bath  in  Taiarapu;  far  and 
near 

The  lovely  laughter  of  bathers  rose  and  delighted  his  ear. 

Night  massed  in  the  valleys;  the  sun  on  the  mountain 
coast 

Struck,  end-long;  and  above  the  clouds  embattled  their 
host, 

And  glowed  and  gloomed  on  the  heights;  and  the  heads  of 
the  palms  were  gems, 

And  far  to  the  rising  eve  extended  the  shade  of  their  stems; 

And  the  shadow  of  Tamatea  hovered  already  at  home. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO  209 

And  sudden  the  sound  of  one  coming  and  running  light 
as  the  foam 

Struck  on  his  ear;  and  he  turned,  and  lo !  a  man  on  his 
track, 

Girded  and  armed  with  an  omare,  following  hard  at  his 
back. 

At  a  bound  the  man  was  upon  him; — and,  or  ever  a  word 
was  said, 

The  loaded  end  of  the  omare  fell  and  laid  him  dead. 


ii 

THE  VENGING  OF  TAMATEA 

Thus  was  Rahero’s  treason;  thus  and  no  further  it  sped: 

The  king  sat  safe  in  his  place  and  a  kindly  fool  was  dead. 

But  the  mother  of  Tamatea  arose  with  death  in  her  eyes. 

All  night  long,  and  the  next,  Taiarapu  rang  with  her  cries. 

As  when  a  babe  in  the  wood  turns  with  a  chill  of  doubt 

And  perceives  nor  home,  nor  friends,  for  the  trees  have 
closed  her  about, 

The  mountain  rings  and  her  breast  is  torn  with  the  voice 
of  despair: 

So  the  lion-like  woman  idly  wearied  the  air 

For  a  while,  and  pierced  men’s  hearing  in  vain,  and 
wounded  their  hearts. 

But  as  when  the  weather  changes  at  sea,  in  dangerous 
parts, 

And  sudden  the  hurricane  wrack  unrolls  up  the  front  of 
sky, 

At  once  the  ship  lies  idle,  the  sails  hang  silent  on  high, 


210  BALLADS 

The  breath  of  the  wind  that  blew  is  blown  out  like  the 
flame  of  a  lamp, 

And  the  silent  armies  of  death  draw  near  with  inaudible 
tramp : 

So  sudden,  the  voice  of  her  weeping  ceased;  in  silence  she 
rose 

And  passed  from  the  house  of  her  sorrow,  a  woman  clothed 
with  repose, 

Carrying  death  in  her  breast  and  sharpening  death  with 
her  hand. 

Hither  she  went  and  thither  in  all  the  coasts  of  the 
land. 

They  tell  that  she  feared  not  to  slumber  alone,  in  the 
dead  of  night. 

In  accursed  places;  beheld,  unblenched,  the  ribbon  of  light9 

Spin  from  temple  to  temple;  guided  the  perilous  skiff. 

Abhorred  not  the  paths  of  the  mountain  and  trod  the 
verge  of  the  cliff; 

From  end  to  end  of  the  island,  thought  not  the  distance 
long, 

But  forth  from  king  to  king  carried  the  tale  of  her  wrong. 

To  king  after  king,  as  they  sat  in  the  palace-door,  she 
came. 

Claiming  kinship,  declaiming  verses,  naming  her  name 

And  the  names  of  all  of  her  fathers;  and  still,  with  a  heart 
on  the  rack, 

Jested  to  capture  a  hearing  and  laughed  when  they  jested 
back: 

So  would  deceive  them  a  while,  and  change  and  return  in 
a  breath, 

And  on  all  the  men  of  Vaiau  imprecate  instant  death; 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO  211 

And  tempt  her  kings — for  Vaiau  was  a  rich  and  pros¬ 
perous  land, 

And  flatter — for  who  would  attempt  it  but  warriors 
mighty  of  hand? 

And  change  in  a  breath  again  and  rise  in  a  strain  of 
song, 

Invoking  the  beaten  drums,  beholding  the  fall  of  the 
strong, 

Calling  the  fowls  of  the  air  to  come  and  feast  on  the  dead. 

And  they  held  the  chin  in  silence,  and  heard  her,  and 
shook  the  head; 

For  they  knew  the  men  of  Taiarapu  famous  in  battle  and 
feast, 

Marvellous  eaters  and  smiters:  the  men  of  Vaiau  not  least. 

To  the  land  of  the  Namunu-ura,10  to  Paea,  at  length  she 
came. 

To  men  who  were  foes  to  the  Tevas  and  hated  their  race 
and  name. 

There  was  she  well  received,  and  spoke  with  Hiopa  the 
king.11 

And  Hiopa  listened,  and  weighed,  and  wisely  considered 
the  thing. 

“Here  in  the  back  of  the  isle  we  dwell  in  a  sheltered 
place,” 

Quoth  he  to  the  woman,  “in  quiet,  a  weak  and  peaceable 
race. 

But  far  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  lofty  Taiarapu  lies; 

Strong  blows  the  wind  of  the  trade  on  its  seaward  face, 
and  cries 

Aloud  in  the  top  of  arduous  mountains,  and  utters  its 
song 


212  BALLADS 

In  green  continuous  forests.  Strong  is  the  wind,  and 
strong 

And  fruitful  and  hardy  the  race,  famous  in  battle  and 
feast, 

Marvellous  eaters  and  smiters:  the  men  of  Vaiau  not  least. 

Now  hearken  to  me,  my  daughter,  and  hear  a  word  of  the 
wise: 

How  a  strength  goes  linked  with  a  weakness,  two  by  two, 
like  the  eyes. 

They  can  wield  the  omare  well  and  cast  the  javelin  far; 

Yet  are  they  greedy  and  weak  as  the  swine  and  the  chil¬ 
dren  are. 

Plant  we,  then,  here  at  Paea,  a  garden  of  excellent  fruits; 

Plant  we  bananas  and  kava  and  taro,  the  king  of  roots; 

Let  the  pigs  in  Paea  be  tapu12  and  no  man  fish  for  a  year; 

And  of  all  the  meat  in  Tahiti  gather  we  threefold  here. 

So  shall  the  fame  of  our  plenty  fill  the  island,  and  so. 

At  last,  on  the  tongue  of  rumour,  go  where  we  wish  it 
to  go. 

Then  shall  the  pigs  of  Taiarapu  raise  their  snouts  in  the  air; 

But  we  sit  quiet  and  wait,  as  the  fowler  sits  by  the  snare. 

And  tranquilly  fold  our  hands,  till  the  pigs  come  nosing 
the  food: 

But  meanwhile  build  us  a  house  of  Trotea,  the  stubborn 
wood, 

Bind  it  with  incombustible  thongs,  set  a  roof  to  the  room. 

Too  strong  for  the  hands  of  a  man  to  dissever  or  fire  to 
consume; 

And  there,  when  the  pigs  come  trotting,  there  shall  the 
feast  be  spread, 

There  shall  the  eye  of  the  morn  enlighten  the  feasters 
dead. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 


213 


So  be  it  done;  for  I  have  a  heart  that  pities  your  state, 

And  Nateva  and  Namunu-ura  are  fire  and  water  for  hate.” 

All  was  done  as  he  said,  and  the  gardens  prospered;  and 
now 

The  fame  of  their  plenty  went  out,  and  word  of  it  came 
to  Vaiau. 

For  the  men  of  Namunu-ura  sailed,  to  the  windward  far. 

Lay  in  the  offing  by  south  where  the  towns  of  the  Tevas 
are. 

And  cast  overboard  of  their  plenty;  and  lo !  at  the  Tevas’ 
feet 

The  surf  on  all  of  the  beaches  tumbled  treasures  of  meat. 

In  the  salt  of  the  sea,  ar  harvest  tossed  with  the  refluent 
foam; 

And  the  children  gleaned  it  in  playing,  and  ate  and 
carried  it  home; 

And  the  elders  stared  and  debated,  and  wondered  and 
passed  the  jest, 

But  whenever  a  guest  came  by  eagerly  questioned  the 
guest; 

And  little  by  little,  from  one  to  another,  the  word  went 
round : 

“In  all  the  borders  of  Paea  the  victual  rots  on  the 
ground, 

And  swine  are  plenty  as  rats.  And  now,  when  they  fare 
to  the  sea. 

The  men  of  the  Namunu-ura  glean  from  under  the  tree 

And  load  the  canoe  to  the  gunwale  with  all  that  is  tooth¬ 
some  to  eat; 

And  all  day  long  on  the  sea  the  jaws  are  crushing  the 
meat. 


214  BALLADS 

The  steersman  eats  at  the  helm,  the  rowers  munch  at 
the  oar, 

And  at  length,  when  their  bellies  are  full,  overboard  with 
the  store !” 

Now  was  the  word  made  true,  and  soon  as  the  bait  was 
bare, 

All  the  pigs  of  Taiarapu  raised  their  snouts  in  the  air. 

Songs  were  recited,  and  kinship  was  counted,  and  tales 
were  told 

How  war  had  severed  of  late  but  peace  had  cemented  of 
old 

The  clans  of  the  island.  “To  war,”  said  they,  “now  set 
we  an  end. 

And  hie  to  the  Namunu-ura  even  as  a  friend  to  a  friend.” 

So  judged,  and  a  day  was  named;  and  soon  as  the  morn¬ 
ing  broke, 

Canoes  were  thrust  in  the  sea  and  the  houses  emptied  of 
folk. 

Strong  blew  the  wind  of  the  south,  the  wind  that  gathers 
the  clan; 

Along  all  the  line  of  the  reef  the  clamorous  surges  ran; 

And  the  clouds  were  piled  on  the  top  of  the  island  moun¬ 
tain-high, 

A  mountain  throned  on  a  mountain.  The  fleet  of  canoes 
swept  by 

In  the  midst,  on  the  green  lagoon,  with  a  crew  released 
from  care, 

Sailing  an  even  water,  breathing  a  summer  air, 

Cheered  by  a  cloudless  sun;  and  ever  to  left  and  right, 

Bursting  surge  on  the  reef,  drenching  storms  on  the 
height. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 


215 


So  the  folk  of  Vaiau  sailed  and  were  glad  all  day, 

Coasting  the  palm-tree  cape  and  crossing  the  populous 
bay 

By  all  the  towns  of  the  Tevas;  and  still  as  they  bowled 
along, 

Boat  would  answer  to  boat  with  jest  and  laughter  and 
song, 

And  the  people  of  all  the  towns  trooped  to  the  sides  of 

the  sea 

And  gazed  from  under  the  hand  or  sprang  aloft  on  the 
tree, 

Hailing  and  cheering.  Time  failed  them  for  more  to  do; 

The  holiday  village  careened  to  the  wind,  and  was  gone 
from  view 

Swift  as  a  passing  bird;  and  ever  as  onward  it  bore, 

Like  the  cry  of  the  passing  bird,  bequeathed  its  song  to 
the  shore — 

Desirable  laughter  of  maids  and  the  cry  of  delight  of  the 
child. 

And  the  gazer,  left  behind,  stared  at  the  wake  and  smiled. 

By  all  the  towns  of  the  Tevas  they  went,  and  Papara 
last, 

The  home  of  the  chief,  the  place  of  muster  in  war;  and 
passed 

The  march  of  the  lands  of  the  clan,  to  the  lands  of  an 
alien  folk. 

And  there,  from  the  dusk  of  the  shoreside  palms,  a  column 
of  smoke 

Mounted  and  wavered  and  died  in  the  gold  of  the  set¬ 
ting  sun, 

“Paea  !”  they  cried.  “It  is  Paea.”  And  so  was  the  voy¬ 
age  done. 


216 


BALLADS 


In  the  early  fall  of  the  night,  Hiopa  came  to  the  shore. 

And  beheld  and  counted  the  comers,  and  lo,  they  were 
forty  score: 

The  pelting  feet  of  the  babes  that  ran  already  and 
played, 

The  clean-lipped  smile  of  the  boy,  the  slender  breasts  of 
the  maid, 

And  mighty  limbs  of  women,  stalwart  mothers  of  men. 

The  sires  stood  forth  unabashed;  but  a  little  back  from 
his  ken 

Clustered  the  scarcely  nubile,  the  lads  and  maids,  in  a 
ring, 

Fain  of  each  other,  afraid  of  themselves,  aware  of  the 
king 

And  aping  behaviour,  but  clinging  together  with  hands 
and  eyes. 

With  looks  that  were  kind  like  kisses,  and  laughter  ten¬ 
der  as  sighs. 

There,  too,  the  grandsire  stood,  raising  his  silver  crest, 

And  the  impotent  hands  of  a  suckling  groped  in  his  bar¬ 
ren  breast. 

The  childhood  of  love,  the  pair  well  married,  the  inno¬ 
cent  brood, 

The  tale  of  the  generations  repeated  and  ever  renewed — 

Hiopa  beheld  them  together,  all  the  ages  of  man. 

And  a  moment  shook  in  his  purpose. 

But  these  were  the  foes  of  his  clan, 

And  he  trod  upon  pity,  and  came,  and  civilly  greeted  the 
king, 

And  gravely  entreated  Rahero;  and  for  all  that  could 
fight  or  sing, 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO  217 

And  claimed  a  name  in  the  land,  had  fitting  phrases  of 
praise ; 

But  with  all  who  were  well-descended  he  spoke  of  the 
ancient  days. 

And  “’Tis  true,”  said  he,  “that  in  Paea  the  victual  rots 
on  the  ground; 

But,  friends,  your  number  is  many;  and  pigs  must  be 
hunted  and  found, 

And  the  lads  troop  to  the  mountains  to  bring  the  feis 
down, 

And  around  the  bowls  of  the  kava  cluster  the  maids  of 
the  town. 

So,  for  to-night,  sleep  here;  but  king,  common,  and 
priest 

To-morrow,  in  order  due,  shall  sit  with  me  in  the  feast.” 

Sleepless  the  live-long  night,  Hiopa’s  followers  toiled. 

The  pigs  screamed  and  were  slaughtered;  the  spars  of 
the  guest-house  oiled, 

The  leaves  spread  on  the  floor.  In  many  a  mountain 
glen 

The  moon  drew  shadows  of  trees  on  the  naked  bodies  of 
men 

Plucking  and  bearing  fruits;  and  in  all  the  bounds  of  the 
town 

Red  glowed  the  cocoa-nut  fires,  and  were  buried  and 
trodden  down. 

Thus  did  seven  of  the  yottowas  toil  with  their  tale  of 
the  clan, 

But  the  eighth  wrought  with  his  lads,  hid  from  the  sight 
of  man. 

In  the  deeps  of  the  woods  they  laboured,  piling  the  fuel 
high 


218 


BALLADS 


In  fagots,  the  load  of  a  man,  fuel  seasoned  and  dry, 
Thirsty  to  seize  upon  fire  and  apt  to  blurt  into  flame. 

And  now  was  the  day  of  the  feast.  The  forests,  as  morn¬ 
ing  came. 

Tossed  in  the  wind,  and  the  peaks  quaked  in  the  blaze 
of  the  day — 

And  the  cocoa-nuts  showered  on  the  ground,  rebound¬ 
ing  and  rolling  away: 

A  glorious  morn  for  a  feast,  a  famous  wind  for  a  fire. 

To  the  hall  of  feasting  Hiopa  led  them,  mother  and  sire 
And  maid  and  babe  in  a  tale,  the  whole  of  the  holiday 
throng. 

Smiling  they  came,  garlanded  green,  not  dreaming  of 
wrong; 

And  for  every  three,  a  pig,  tenderly  cooked  in  the 
ground. 

Waited;  and  fei,  the  staff  of  life,  heaped  in  a  mound 
For  each  where  he  sat; — for  each,  bananas  roasted  and  raw 
Piled  with  a  bountiful  hand,  as  for  horses  hay  and  straw 
Are  stacked  in  a  stable;  and  fish,  the  food  of  desire,13 
And  plentiful  vessels  of  sauce,  and  breadfruit  gilt  in  the 
fire; — 

And  kava  was  common  as  water.  Feasts  have  there  been 
ere  now, 

And  many,  but  never  a  feast  like  that  of  the  folk  of  Vaiau. 

All  day  long  they  ate  with  the  resolute  greed  of  brutes. 
And  turned  from  the  pigs  to  the  fish,  and  again  from  the 
fish  to  the  fruits. 

And  emptied  the  vessels  of  sauce,  and  drank  of  the  kava 
deep; 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 


219 


Till  the  young  lay  stupid  as  stones,  and  the  strongest 
nodded  to  sleep. 

Sleep  that  was  mighty  as  death  and  blind  as  a  moonless 
night 

Tethered  them  hand  and  foot;  and  their  souls  were 
drowned,  and  the  light 

Was  cloaked  from  their  eyes.  Senseless  together  the  old 
and  the  young, 

The  fighter  deadly  to  smite  and  the  prater  cunning  of 
tongue, 

The  woman  wedded  and  fruitful,  inured  to  the  pangs  of 
birth, 

And  the  maid  that  knew  not  of  kisses,  blindly  sprawled 
on  the  earth. 

From  the  hall  Hiopa  the  king  and  his  chiefs  came 
stealthily  forth. 

Already  the  sun  hung  low  and  enlightened  the  peaks  of 
the  north; 

But  the  wind  was  stubborn  to  die  and  blew  as  it  blows 
at  morn, 

Showering  the  nuts  in  the  dusk,  and  e’en  as  a  banner  is 
torn, 

High  on  the  peaks  of  the  island,  shattered  the  mountain 
cloud. 

And  now  at  once,  at  a  signal,  a  silent,  emulous  crowd 

Set  hands  to  the  work  of  death,  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Like  ants,  to  furnish  the  fagots,  building  them  broad  and 
low. 

And  piling  them  high  and  higher  around  the  walls  of  the 
hall. 

Silence  persisted  within,  for  sleep  lay  heavy  on  all. 


220 


BALLADS 


But  the  mother  of  Tamatea  stood  at  Hiopa’s  side. 

And  shook  for  terror  and  joy  like  a  girl  that  is  a  bride. 

Night  fell  on  the  toilers,  and  first  Hiopa  the  wise 

Made  the  round  of  the  house,  visiting  all  with  his 
eyes; 

And  all  was  piled  to  the  eaves,  and  fuel  blockaded  the 
door; 

And  within,  in  the  house  beleaguered,  slumbered  the  forty 
score. 

Then  was  an  aito  dispatched  and  came  with  fire  in  his 
hand, 

And  Hiopa  took  it. — “Within,”  said  he,  “is  the  life  of  a 
land; 

And  behold !  I  breathe  on  the  coal,  I  breathe  on  the  dales 
of  the  east, 

And  silence  falls  on  forest  and  shore;  the  voice  of  the 
feast 

Is  quenched,  and  the  smoke  of  cooking;  the  roof -tree 
decays  and  falls 

On  the  empty  lodge,  and  the  winds  subvert  deserted 
walls.” 

Therewithal,  to  the  fuel,  he  laid  the  glowing  coal; 

And  the  redness  ran  in  the  mass  and  burrowed  within 
like  a  mole, 

And  copious  smoke  was  conceived.  But,  as  when  a  dam 
is  to  burst. 

The  water  lips  it  and  crosses  in  silver  trickles  at  first, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  whelms  and  bears  it  away  forth¬ 
right  : 

So  now,  in  a  moment,  the  flame  sprang  and  towered  in 
the  night, 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO  221 

And  wrestled  and  roared  in  the  wind,  and  high  over  house 
and  tree, 

Stood,  like  a  streaming  torch,  enlightening  land  and  sea. 

But  the  mother  of  Tamatea  threw  her  arms  abroad, 

“Pyre  of  my  son,”  she  shouted,  “debited  vengeance  of 
God, 

Late,  late,  I  behold  you,  yet  I  behold  you  at  last, 

And  glory,  beholding  !  For  now  are  the  days  of  my  agony 
past, 

The  lust  that  famished  my  soul  now  eats  and  drinks  its 
desire, 

And  they  that  encompassed  my  son  shrivel  alive  in  the 
fire. 

Tenfold  precious  the  vengeance  that  comes  after  linger¬ 
ing  years ! 

Ye  quenched  the  voice  of  my  singer  ? — hark,  in  your  dying 
ears, 

The  song  of  the  conflagration !  Ye  left  me  a  widow 
alone  ? 

— Behold,  the  whole  of  your  race  consumes,  sinew  and 
bone 

And  torturing  flesh  together:  man,  mother,  and  maid 

Heaped  in  a  common  shambles;  and  already,  borne  by 
the  trade, 

The  smoke  of  your  dissolution  darkens  the  stars  of 
night.” 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  her  stature  grew  in  the  people’s 
sight. 


BALLADS 


222 


hi 

RAHERO 

Rahero  was  there  in  the  hall  asleep:  beside  him  his  wife. 

Comely,  a  mirthful  woman,  one  that  delighted  in  life; 

And  a  girl  that  was  ripe  for  marriage,  shy  and  sly  as  a 
mouse; 

And  a  boy,  a  climber  of  trees:  all  the  hopes  of  his  house. 

Unwary,  with  open  hands,  he  slept  in  the  midst  of  his 
folk. 

And  dreamed  that  he  heard  a  voice  crying  without,  and 
awoke, 

Leaping  blindly  afoot  like  one  from  a  dream  that  he 
fears. 

A  hellish  glow  and  clouds  were  about  him; — it  roared  in 
his  ears 

Like  the  sound  of  the  cataract  fall  that  plunges  sudden 
and  steep; 

And  Rahero  swayed  as  he  stood,  and  his  reason  was  still 
asleep. 

Now  the  flame  struck  hard  on  the  house,  wind- wielded,  a 
fracturing  blow, 

And  the  end  of  the  roof  was  burst  and  fell  on  the  sleepers 
below; 

And  the  lofty  hall,  and  the  feast,  and  the  prostrate  bodies 
of  folk, 

Shone  red  in  his  eyes  a  moment,  and  then  were  swallowed 
of  smoke. 

In  the  mind  of  Rahero  clearness  came,  and  he  opened  his 
throat; 

And  as  when  a  squall  comes  sudden,  the  straining  sail  of 
a  boat 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHflRO  223 

Thunders  aloud  and  bursts,  so  thundered  the  voice  of 
the  man. 

— “The  wind  and  the  rain!”  he  shouted,  the  mustering 
word  of  the  clan,14 

And  “Up !”  and  “To  arms,  men  of  Vaiau !”  But  silence 
replied, 

Or  only  the  voice  of  the  gusts  of  the  fire,  and  nothing 
beside. 

Rahero  stooped  and  groped.  He  handled  his  womankind, 

But  the  fumes  of  the  fire  and  the  kava  had  quenched  the 
life  of  their  mind, 

And  they  lay  like  pillars  prone;  and  his  hand  encoun¬ 
tered  the  boy, 

And  there  sprang  in  the  gloom  of  his  soul  a  sudden  light¬ 
ning  of  joy. 

“Him  can  I  save!”  he  thought,  “if  I  were  speedy 
enough.” 

And  he  loosened  the  cloth  from  his  loins,  and  swaddled 
the  child  in  the  stuff; 

And  about  the  strength  of  his  neck  he  knotted  the  bur¬ 
den  well. 

There  where  the  roof  had  fallen,  it  roared  like  the  mouth 
of  hell. 

Thither  Rahero  went,  stumbling  on  senseless  folk, 

And  grappled  a  post  of  the  house,  and  began  to  climb  in 
the  smoke: 

The  last  alive  of  Vaiau:  and  the  son  borne  by  the  sire. 

The  post  glowed  in  the  grain  with  ulcers  of  eating  fire. 

And  the  fire  bit  to  the  blood  and  mangled  his  hands  and 
thighs; 


224  BALLADS 

And  the  fumes  sang  in  his  head  like  wine  and  stung  in 
his  eyes; 

And  still  he  climbed,  and  came  to  the  top,  the  place  of 
proof, 

And  thrust  a  hand  through  the  flame,  and  clambered 
alive  on  the  roof. 

But  even  as  he  did  so,  the  wind,  in  a  garment  of  flames 
and  pain, 

Wrapped  him  from  head  to  heel;  and  the  waist-cloth 
parted  in  twain; 

And  the  living  fruit  of  his  loins  dropped  in  the  fire  below. 

About  the  blazing  feast-house  clustered  the  eyes  of  the 
foe. 

Watching,  hand  upon  weapon,  lest  ever  a  soul  should 
flee, 

Shading  the  brow  from  the  glare,  straining  the  neck  to 
see. 

Only,  to  leeward,  the  flames  in  the  wind  swept  far  and 
wide, 

And  the  forest  sputtered  on  fire;  and  there  might  no  man 
abide. 

Thither  Rahero  crept,  and  dropped  from  the  burning 
eaves, 

x4nd  crouching  low  to  the  ground,  in  a  treble  covert  of 
leaves 

And  fire  and  volleying  smoke,  ran  for  the  life  of  his  soul 

Unseen;  and  behind  him  under  a  furnace  of  ardent  coal, 

Cairned  with  a  wonder  of  flame,  and  blotting  the  night 
with  smoke, 

Blazed  and  were  smelted  together  the  bones  of  all  his 
folk. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 


225 


He  fled  unguided  at  first;  but  bearing  the  breakers  roar, 

Thitherward  shaped  his  way,  and  came  at  length  to  the 
shore. 

Sound-limbed  he  was,  dry-eyed;  but  smarted  in  every 
part; 

And  the  mighty  cage  of  his  ribs  heaved  on  his  straining 
heart 

With  sorrow  and  rage.  And  “Fools !”  he  cried,  “fools  of 
Vaiau, 

Heads  of  swine — gluttons — iVlas  !  and  where  are  they  now  ? 

Those  that  I  played  with,  those  that  nursed  me,  those 
that  I  nursed? 

God,  and  I  outliving  them !  I,  the  least  and  the  worst — 

I,  that  thought  myself  crafty,  snared  by  this  herd 
of  swine, 

In  the  tortures  of  hell  and  desolate,  stripped  of  all  that 
was  mine: 

All ! — my  friends  and  my  fathers — the  silver  heads  of  yore 

That  trooped  to  the  council,  the  children  that  ran  to  the 
open  door 

Crying  with  innocent  voices  and  clasping  a  father’s 
knees ! 

And  mine,  my  wife — my  daughter — my  sturdy  climber  of 
trees. 

Ah,  never  to  climb  again !  ” 


Thus  in  the  dusk  of  the  night, 
(For  clouds  rolled  in  the  sky  and  the  moon  was  swallowed 
from  sight). 

Pacing  and  gnawing  his  fists,  Bahero  raged  by  the  shore. 
Vengeance:  that  must  be  his.  But  much  was  to  do  be¬ 
fore; 


BALLADS 


226 

And  first  a  single  life  to  be  snatched  from  a  deadly  place, 

A  life,  the  root  of  revenge,  surviving  plant  of  the  race: 

And  next  the  race  to  be  raised  anew,  and  the  lands  of  the 
clan 

Repeopled.  So  Rahero  designed,  a  prudent  man 

Even  in  wrath,  and  turned  for  the  means  of  revenge  and 
escape : 

A  boat  to  be  seized  by  stealth,  a  wife  to  be  taken  by 
rape. 

Still  was  the  dark  lagoon;  beyond  on  the  coral  wall, 

He  saw  the  breakers  shine,  he  heard  them  bellow  and 
fall. 

Alone,  on  the  top  of  the  reef,  a  man  with  a  flaming  brand 

Walked,  gazing  and  pausing,  a  fish-spear  poised  in  his 
hand. 

The  foam  boiled  to  his  calf  when  the  mightier  breakers 
came, 

And  the  torch  shed  in  the  wind  scattering  tufts  of  flame. 

Afar  on  the  dark  lagoon  a  canoe  lay  idly  at  wait: 

A  figure  dimly  guiding  it:  surely  the  fisherman’s  mate. 

Rahero  saw  and  he  smiled.  He  straightened  his  mighty 
thews : 

Naked,  with  never  a  weapon,  and  covered  with  scorch 
and  bruise, 

He  straightened  his  arms,  he  filled  the  void  of  his  body 
with  breath, 

And,  strong  as  the  wind  in  his  manhood,  doomed  the 
fisher  to  death. 

Silent  he  entered  the  water,  and  silently  swam,  and  came 

There  where  the  fisher  walked,  holding  on  high  the  flame. 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO 


227 


Loud  on  the  pier  of  the  reef  volleyed  the  breach  of  the  sea ; 

And  hard  at  the  back  of  the  man,  Rahero  crept  to  his 
knee 

On  the  coral,  and  suddenly  sprang  and  seized  him,  the 
elder  hand 

Clutching  the  joint  of  his  throat,  the  other  snatching  the 
brand 

Ere  it  had  time  to  fall,  and  holding  it  steady  and  high. 

Strong  was  the  fisher,  brave,  and  swift  of  mind  and  of 
eye— 

Strongly  he  threw  in  the  clutch;  but  Rahero  resisted  the 
strain, 

And  jerked,  and  the  spine  of  life  snapped  with  a  crack  in 
twain, 

And  the  man  came  slack  in  his  hands  and  tumbled  a  lump 
at  his  feet. 

One  moment:  and  there,  on  the  reef,  where  the  breakers 
whitened  and  beat, 

Rahero  was  standing  alone,  glowing  and  scorched  and 
bare, 

A  victor  unknown  of  any,  raising  the  torch  in  the  air. 

But  once  he  drank  of  his  breath,  and  instantly  set  him 
to  fish 

Like  a  man  intent  upon  supper  at  home  and  a  savoury 
dish. 

For  what  should  the  woman  have  seen?  A  man  with  a 
torch — and  then 

A  moment’s  blur  of  the  eyes — and  a  man  with  a  torch 
again. 

And  the  torch  had  scarcely  been  shaken.  “Ah,  surely,” 
Rahero  said, 


228  BALLADS 

“She  will  deem  it  a  trick  of  the  eyes,  a  fancy  born  in  the 
head; 

But  time  must  be  given  the  fool  to  nourish  a  fool’s  be¬ 
lief.” 

So  for  a  while,  a  sedulous  fisher,  he  walked  the  reef, 

Pausing  at  times  and  gazing,  striking  at  times  with  the 
spear : 

— Lastly,  uttered  the  call;  and  even  as  the  boat  drew 
near, 

Like  a  man  that  was  done  with  its  use,  tossed  the  torch 
in  the  sea. 

Lightly  he  leaped  on  the  boat  beside  the  woman;  and 
she 

Lightly  addressed  him,  and  yielded  the  paddle  and  place 
to  sit; 

For  now  the  torch  was  extinguished  the  night  was  black 
as  the  pit. 

Rahero  set  him  to  row,  never  a  word  he  spoke. 

And  the  boat  sang  in  the  water  urged  by  his  vigorous 
stroke. 

— “What  ails  you?”  the  woman  asked,  “and  why  did 
you  drop  the  brand? 

We  have  only  to  kindle  another  as  soon  as  we  come  to 
land.” 

Never  a  word  Rahero  replied,  but  urged  the  canoe. 

And  a  chill  fell  on  the  woman. — “Atta  !  speak  !  is  it  you  ? 

Speak  !  Why  are  you  silent  ?  Why  do  you  bend  aside  ? 

Wherefore  steer  to  the  seaward?”  thus  she  panted  and 
cried. 

Never  a  word  from  the  oarsman,  toiling  there  in  the 
dark ; 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO  229 

But  right  for  a  gate  of  the  reef  he  silently  headed  the 
bark, 

And  wielding  the  single  paddle  with  passionate  sweep  on 
sweep, 

Drove  her,  the  little  fitted,  forth  on  the  open  deep. 

And  fear,  there  where  she  sat,  froze  the  woman  to  stone: 

Not  fear  of  the  crazy  boat  and  the  weltering  deep 
alone; 

But  a  keener  fear  of  the  night,  the  dark,  and  the  ghostly 
hour, 

And  the  thing  that  drove  the  canoe  with  more  than  a 
mortal’s  power 

And  more  than  a  mortal’s  boldness.  For  much  she  knew 
of  the  dead 

That  haunt  and  fish  upon  reefs,  toiling,  like  men,  for 
bread, 

And  traffic  with  human  fishers,  or  slay  them  and  take 
their  ware, 

Till  the  hour  when  the  star  of  the  dead  15  goes  down,  and 
the  morning  air 

Blows,  and  the  cocks  are  singing  on  shore.  And  surely 
she  knew. 

The  speechless  thing  at  her  side  belonged  to  the  grave.16 

It  blew 

All  night  from  the  south;  all  night,  Rahero  contended 
and  kept 

The  prow  to  the  cresting  sea;  and,  silent  as  though  she 
slept, 

The  woman  huddled  and  quaked.  And  now  was  the  peep 
of  day. 

High  and  long  on  their  left  the  mountainous  island  lay; 


230  BALLADS 

And  over  the  peaks  of  Taiarapu  arrows  of  sunlight 
struck. 

On  shore  the  birds  were  beginning  to  sing:  the  ghostly 
ruck 

Of  the  buried  had  long  ago  returned  to  the  covered 
grave; 

And  here  on  the  sea,  the  woman,  waxing  suddenly  brave, 

Turned  her  swiftly  about  and  looked  in  the  face  of  the 
man. 

And  sure  he  was  none  that  she  knew,  none  of  her  country 
or  clan: 

A  stranger,  mother-naked,  and  marred  with  the  marks  of 
fire, 

But  comely  and  great  of  stature,  a  man  to  obey  and  ad¬ 
mire. 

And  Rahero  regarded  her  also,  fixed,  with  a  frowning 
face, 

Judging  the  woman’s  fitness  to  mother  a  warlike  race. 

Broad  of  shoulder,  ample  of  girdle,  long  in  the  thigh. 

Deep  of  bosom  she  was,  and  bravely  supported  his  eye. 

“Woman,”  said  he,  “last  night  the  men  of  your  folk — 

Man,  woman,  and  maid,  smothered  my  race  in  smoke. 

It  was  done  like  cowards;  and  I,  a  mighty  man  of  my 
hands, 

Escaped,  a  single  life;  and  now  to  the  empty  lands 

And  smokeless  hearths  of  my  people,  sail,  with  yourself, 
alone. 

Before  your  mother  was  born,  the  die  of  to-day  was 
thrown 

And  you  selected: — your  husband,  vainly  striving,  to  fall 


THE  SONG  OF  RAHfiRO  231 

Broken  between  these  hands : — yourself  to  be  severed  from 
all. 

The  places,  the  people,  you  love — home,  kindred,  and 
clan — 

And  to  dwell  in  a  desert  and  bear  the  babes  of  a  kinless 


man. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 

MARQUESAN  MANNERS 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 

MARQUESAN  MANNERS 
I 

THE  PRIEST’S  VIGIL 

IN  all  the  land  of  the  tribe  was  neither  fish  nor  fruit. 
And  the  deepest  pit  of  popoi  stood  empty  to  the  foot.1 
The  clans  upon  the  left  and  the  clans  upon  the  right 
Now  oiled  their  carven  maces  and  scoured  their  daggers 
bright; 

They  gat  them  to  the  thicket,  to  the  deepest  of  the 
shade, 

And  lay  with  sleepless  eyes  in  the  deadly  ambuscade. 
And  oft  in  the  starry  even  the  song  of  mourning  rose. 
What  time  the  oven  smoked  in  the  country  of  their  foes; 
For  oft  to  loving  hearts,  and  waiting  ears  and  sight. 

The  lads  that  went  to  forage  returned  not  with  the  night. 
Now  first  the  children  sickened,  and  then  the  women 
paled, 

And  the  great  arms  of  the  warrior  no  more  for  war 
availed. 

Hushed  was  the  deep  drum,  discarded  was  the  dance; 
And  those  that  met  the  priest  now  glanced  at  him 
askance. 

The  priest  wTas  a  man  of  years,  his  eyes  were  ruby-red,2 
He  neither  feared  the  dark  nor  the  terrors  of  the  dead, 

235 


236 


BALLADS 


He  knew  the  songs  of  races,  the  names  of  ancient  date; 

And  the  beard  upon  his  bosom  would  have  bought  the 
chief’s  estate. 

He  dwelt  in  a  high-built  lodge,  hard  by  the  roaring  shore, 

Raised  on  a  noble  terrace  and  with  tikis  3  at  the  door. 

Within  it  was  full  of  riches,  for  he  served  his  nation  well. 

And  full  of  the  sound  of  breakers,  like  the  hollow  of  a 
shell. 

For  weeks  he  let  them  perish,  gave  never  a  helping  sign. 

But  sat  on  his  oiled  platform  to  commune  with  the 
divine — 

But  sat  on  his  high  terrace,  with  the  tikis  by  his  side. 

And  stared  on  the  blue  ocean,  like  a  parrot,  ruby-eyed. 

Dawn  as  yellow  as  sulphur  leaped  on  the  mountain 
height : 

Out  on  the  round  of  the  sea  the  gems  of  the  morning 
light, 

Up  from  the  round  of  the  sea  the  streamers  of  the  sun; — 

But  down  in  the  depths  of  the  valley  the  day  was  not 
begun. 

In  the  blue  of  the  woody  twilight  burned  red  the  cocoa- 
husk, 

And  the  women  and  men  of  the  clan  went  forth  to  bathe 
in  the  dusk. 

A  word  that  began  to  go  round,  a  word,  a  whisper,  a 
start : 

Hope  that  leaped  in  the  bosom,  fear  that  knocked  on  the 
heart : 

“See,  the  priest  is  not  risen — look,  for  his  door  is  fast! 

“He  is  going  to  name  the  victims;  he  is  going  to  help  us 
at  last.” 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE  237 

Thrice  rose  the  sun  to  noon;  and  ever,  like  one  of  the 
dead. 

The  priest  lay  still  in  his  house  with  the  roar  of  the  sea 
in  his  head; 

There  was  never  a  foot  on  the  floor,  there  was  never  a 
whisper  of  speech; 

Only  the  leering  tikis  stared  on  the  blinding  beach. 

Again  were  the  mountains  fired,  again  the  morning  broke; 

And  all  the  houses  lay  still,  but  the  house  of  the  priest 
awoke. 

Close  in  their  covering  roofs  lay  and  trembled  the  clan. 

But  the  aged,  red-eyed  priest  ran  forth  like  a  lunatic 
man; 

And  the  village  panted  to  see  him  in  the  jewels  of  death 
again, 

In  the  silver  beards  of  the  old  and  the  hair  of  women 
slain. 

Frenzy  shook  in  his  limbs,  frenzy  shone  in  his  eyes, 

And  still  and  again  as  he  ran,  the  valley  rang  with  his 
cries. 

All  day  long  in  the  land,  by  cliff  and  thicket  and  den, 

He  ran  his  lunatic  rounds,  and  howled  for  the  flesh  of 
men; 

All  day  long  he  ate  not,  nor  ever  drank  of  the  brook; 

And  all  day  long  in  their  houses  the  people  listened  and 
shook — 

All  day  long  in  their  houses  they  listened  with  bated 
breath, 

And  never  a  soul  went  forth,  for  the  sight  of  the  priest 
was  death. 


238  BALLADS 

Three  were  the  days  of  his  running,  as  the  gods  appointed 
of  yore, 

Two  the  nights  of  his  sleeping  alone  in  the  place  of  gore: 

The  drunken  slumber  of  frenzy  twice  he  drank  to  the 
lees, 

On  the  sacred  stones  of  the  High-place  under  the  sacred 
trees; 

With  a  lamp  at  his  ashen  head  he  lay  in  the  place  of  the 
feast, 

And  the  sacred  leaves  of  the  banyan  rustled  around  the 
priest. 

Last,  when  the  stated  even  fell  upon  terrace  and  tree, 

And  the  shade  of  the  lofty  island  lay  leagues  away  to 
sea, 

And  all  the  valleys  of  verdure  were  heavy  with  manna 
and  musk, 

The  wreck  of  the  red-eyed  priest  came  gasping  home  in 
the  dusk. 

He  reeled  across  the  village,  he  staggered  along  the  shore. 

And  between  the  leering  tikis  crept  groping  through  his 
door. 

There  went  a  stir  through  the  lodges,  the  voice  of  speech 
awoke; 

Once  more  from  the  builded  platforms  arose  the  evening 
smoke. 

And  those  who  were  mighty  in  war,  and  those  renowned 
for  an  art 

Sat  in  their  stated  seats  and  talked  of  the  morrow  apart. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


239 


ii 

THE  LOVERS 

Hark !  away  in  the  woods — for  the  ears  of  love  are 
sharp — 

Stealthily,  quietly  touched,  the  note  of  the  one-stringed 
harp.4 

In  the  lighted  house  of  her  father,  why  should  Taheia 
start  ? 

Taheia  heavy  of  hair,  Taheia  tender  of  heart, 

Taheia  the  well-descended,  a  bountiful  dealer  in  love, 

Nimble  of  foot  like  the  deer,  and  kind  of  eye  like  the 
dove  ? 

Sly  and  shy  as  a  cat,  with  never  a  change  of  face, 

Taheia  slips  to  the  door,  like  one  that  would  breathe  a 
space ; 

Saunters  and  pauses,  and  looks  at  the  stars,  and  lists  to 
the  seas; 

Then  sudden  and  swift  as  a  cat,  she  plunges  under  the 
trees. 

Swift  as  a  cat  she  runs,  with  her  garment  gathered  high. 

Leaping,  nimble  of  foot,  running,  certain  of  eye; 

And  ever  to  guide  her  way  over  the  smooth  and  the 
sharp, 

Ever  nearer  and  nearer  the  note  of  the  one-stringed  harp; 

Till  at  length,  in  a  glade  of  the  wood,  with  a  naked  moun¬ 
tain  above, 

The  sound  of  the  harp  thrown  down,  and  she  in  the  arms 
of  her  love. 

“Rua,” — “Taheia,”  they  cry — “my  heart,  my  soul,  and 
my  eyes,” 


240  BALLADS 

And  clasp  and  sunder  and  kiss,  with  lovely  laughter  and 
sighs, 

“Rua!” — “Taheia,  my  love,” — “Rua,  star  of  my  night, 
Clasp  me,  hold  me,  and  love  me,  single  spring  of  delight.” 

And  Rua  folded  her  close,  he  folded  her  near  and  long, 
The  living  knit  to  the  living,  and  sang  the  lover’s  song: 

Night ,  night  it  is ,  night  upon  the  palms. 

Night ,  night  it  is ,  the  land  wind  has  blown , 

Starry ,  starry  night ,  over  deep  and  height; 

Love ,  love  in  the  valley ,  love  all  alone. 

“Taheia,  heavy  of  hair,  a  foolish  thing  have  we  done, 

To  bind  what  gods  have  sundered  unkindly  into  one. 
Why  should  a  lowly  lover  have  touched  Taheia ’s  skirt, 
Taheia  the  well-descended,  and  Rua  child  of  the  dirt?” 

— “On  high  with  the  haka-ikis  my  father  sits  in  state, 
Ten  times  fifty  kinsmen  salute  him  in  the  gate; 

Round  all  his  martial  body,  and  in  bands  across  his  face, 
The  marks  of  the  tattooer  proclaim  his  lofty  place. 

I  too,  in  the  hands  of  the  cunning,  in  the  sacred  cabin  of 
palm,5 

Have  shrunk  like  the  mimosa,  and  bleated  like  the  lamb; 
Round  half  my  tender  body  that  none  shall  clasp  but 
you, 

For  a  crest  and  a  fair  adornment  go  dainty  lines  of  blue. 
Love,  love,  beloved  Rua,  love  levels  all  degrees, 

And  the  well-tattooed  Taheia  clings  panting  to  your 
knees.” 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE  241 

— “Taheia,  song  of  the  morning,  how  long  is  the  longest 
love  ? 

A  cry,  a  clasp  of  the  hands,  a  star  that  falls  from  above ! 

Ever  at  morn  in  the  blue,  and  at  night  when  all  is  black 

Ever  it  skulks  and  trembles  with  the  hunter,  Death,  on 
its  track. 

Hear  me,  Taheia,  death !  For  to-morrow  the  priest  shall 
awake. 

And  the  names  be  named  of  the  victims  to  bleed  for  the 
nation’s  sake; 

And  first  of  the  numbered  many  that  shall  be  slain  ere 
noon, 

Rua  the  child  of  the  dirt,  Rua  the  kinless  loon. 

For  him  shall  the  drum  be  beat,  for  him  be  raised  the 
song, 

For  him  to  the  sacred  High-place  the  chanting  people 
throng, 

For  him  the  oven  smoke  as  for  a  speechless  beast, 

And  the  sire  of  my  Taheia  come  greedy  to  the  feast.” 

“Rua,  be  silent,  spare  me.  Taheia  closes  her  ears 

Pity  my  yearning  heart,  pity  my  girlish  years ! 

Flee  from  the  cruel  hands,  flee  from  the  knife  and  coal. 

Lie  hid  in  the  deeps  of  the  woods,  Rua,  sire  of  my  soul !  ” 

“Whither  to  flee,  Taheia,  whither  in  all  of  the  land? 

The  fires  of  the  bloody  kitchen  are  kindled  on  every 
hand; 

On  every  hand  in  the  isle  a  hungry  whetting  of  teeth, 

Eyes  in  the  trees  above,  arms  in  the  brush  beneath. 

Patience  to  lie  in  wait,  cunning  to  follow  the  sleuth, 

Abroad  the  foes  I  have  fought,  and  at  home  the  friends 
of  my  youth.” 


242 


BALLADS 


“Love,  love,  beloved  Rua,  love  has  a  clearer  eye, 

Hence  from  the  arms  of  love  you  go  not  forth  to  die. 

There,  where  the  broken  mountain  drops  sheer  into  the 
glen, 

There  shall  you  find  a  hold  from  the  boldest  hunter  of 
men; 

There,  in  the  deep  recess,  where  the  sun  falls  only  at 
noon. 

And  only  once  in  the  night  enters  the  light  of  the  moon, 

Nor  ever  a  sound  but  of  birds,  or  the  rain  when  it  falls 
with  a  shout; 

For  death  and  the  fear  of  death  beleaguer  the  valley 
about. 

Tapu  it  is,  but  the  gods  will  surely  pardon  despair; 

Tapu,  but  what  of  that?  If  Rua  can  only  dare. 

Tapu  and  tapu  and  tapu,  I  know  they  are  every  one 
right; 

But  the  god  of  every  tapu  is  not  always  quick  to 
smite. 

Lie  secret  there,  my  Rua,  in  the  arms  of  awful  gods, 

Sleep  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  on  the  couch  of  the  kindly 
sods. 

Sleep  and  dream  of  Taheia,  Taheia  will  wake  for  you; 

And  whenever  the  land-wind  blows  and  the  woods  are 
heavy  with  dew, 

Alone  through  the  horror  of  night,6  with  food  for  the  soul 
of  her  love, 

Taheia  the  undissuaded  will  hurry  true  as  the  dove.,, 

“Taheia,  the  pit  of  the  night  crawls  with  treacherous 
things, 

Spirits  of  ultimate  air  and  the  evil  souls  of  things; 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


243 


The  souls  of  the  dead,  the  stranglers,  that  perch  in  the 
trees  of  the  wood, 

Waiters  for  all  things  human,  haters  of  evil  and  good.” 

“Rua,  behold  me,  kiss  me,  look  in  my  eyes  and  read; 

Are  these  the  eyes  of  a  maid  that  would  leave  her  lover 
in  need? 

Brave  in  the  eye  of  day,  my  father  ruled  in  the  fight; 

The  child  of  his  loins,  Taheia,  will  play  the  man  in  the 
night.” 

So  it  was  spoken,  and  so  agreed,  and  Taheia  arose 

And  smiled  in  the  stars  and  was  gone,  swift  as  the  swal¬ 
low  goes; 

And  Rua  stood  on  the  hill,  and  sighed,  and  followed  her 
flight, 

And  there  were  the  lodges  below,  each  with  its  door 
alight ; 

From  folk  that  sat  on  the  terrace  and  drew  out  the  even 
long 

Sudden  cro wings  of  laughter,  monotonous  drone  of  song; 

The  quiet  passage  of  souls  over  his  head  in  the  trees;7 

And  from  all  around  the  haven  the  crumbling  thunder  of 
seas. 

“Farewell,  my  home,”  said  Rua.  “Farewell,  O  quiet 
seat ! 

To-morrow  in  all  your  valleys  the  drum  of  death  shall 
beat.” 


244 


BALLADS 


hi 

THE  FEAST 

Dawn  as  yellow  as  sulphur  leaped  on  the  naked  peak, 

And  all  the  village  was  stirring,  for  now  was  the  priest  to 
speak. 

Forth  on  his  terrace  he  came,  and  sat  with  the  chief  in 
talk; 

His  lips  were  blackened  with  fever,  his  cheeks  were  whiter 
than  chalk; 

Fever  clutched  at  his  hands,  fever  nodded  his  head, 

But,  quiet  and  steady  and  cruel,  his  eyes  shone  ruby- 
red. 

In  the  earliest  rays  of  the  sun  the  chief  rose  up  content; 

Braves  were  summoned,  and  drummers;  messengers  came 
and  went; 

Braves  ran  to  their  lodges,  weapons  were  snatched  from 
the  wall; 

The  commons  herded  together,  and  fear  was  over  them 

all. 

Festival  dresses  they  wore,  but  the  tongue  was  dry  in 
their  mouth, 

And  the  blinking  eyes  in  their  faces  skirted  from  north  to 
south. 

Now  to  the  sacred  enclosure  gathered  the  greatest  and 
least, 

And  from  under  the  shade  of  the  banyan  arose  the  voice 
of  the  feast, 

The  frenzied  roll  of  the  drum,  and  a  swift,  monotonous 
song. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


245 


Higher  the  sun  swam  up;  the  trade-wind  level  and  strong 

Awoke  in  the  tops  of  the  palms  and  rattled  the  fans 
aloud, 

And  over  the  garlanded  heads  and  shining  robes  of  the 
crowd 

Tossed  the  spiders  of  shadow,  scattered  the  jewels  of  sun. 

Forty  the  tale  of  the  drums,  and  the  forty  throbbed  like 
one; 

A  thousand  hearts  in  the  crowd,  and  the  even  chorus  of 
song, 

Swift  as  the  feet  of  a  runner,  trampled  a  thousand  strong. 

And  the  old  men  leered  at  the  ovens  and  licked  their  lips 
for  the  food; 

And  the  women  stared  at  the  lads,  and  laughed  and  looked 
to  the  wood. 

As  when  the  sweltering  baker,  at  night,  w'hen  the  city  is 
dead, 

Alone  in  the  trough  of  labour  treads  and  fashions  the 
bread; 

So  in  the  heat,  and  the  reek,  and  the  touch  of  woman 
and  man, 

The  naked  spirit  of  evil  kneaded  the  hearts  of  the  clan. 

Now  cold  was  at  many  a  heart,  and  shaking  in  many  a 
seat; 

For  there  were  the  empty  baskets,  but  who  was  to  furnish 
the  meat? 

For  here  was  the  nation  assembled,  and  there  were  the 
ovens  anigh, 

And  out  of  a  thousand  singers  nine  were  numbered  to 
die. 

Till,  of  a  sudden,  a  shock,  a  mace  in  the  air,  a  yell, 


246  BALLADS 

And,  struck  in  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  the  first  of  the  vic¬ 
tims  fell.8 

Terror  and  horrible  glee  divided  the  shrinking  clan, 

Terror  of  what  was  to  follow,  glee  for  a  diet  of  man. 

Frenzy  hurried  the  chaunt,  frenzy  rattled  the  drums; 

The  nobles,  high  on  the  terrace,  greedily  mouthed  their 
thumbs ; 

And  once  and  again  and  again,  in  the  ignorant  crowd  be¬ 
low, 

Once  and  again  and  again  descended  the  murderous 
blow. 

Now  smoked  the  oven,  and  now,  with  the  cutting  lip  of 
a  shell, 

A  butcher  of  ninety  winters  jointed  the  bodies  well. 

Unto  the  carven  lodge,  silent,  in  order  due, 

The  grandees  of  the  nation  one  after  one  withdrew; 

And  a  line  of  laden  bearers  brought  to  the  terrace  foot, 

On  poles  across  their  shoulders,  the  last  reserve  of  fruit. 

The  victims  bled  for  the  nobles  in  the  old  appointed 
way; 

The  fruit  was  spread  for  the  commons,  for  all  should  eat 
to-day. 

And  now  was  the  kava  brewed,  and  now  the  cocoa  ran. 

Now  was  the  hour  of  the  dance  for  child  and  woman  and 
man; 

And  mirth  was  in  every  heart,  and  a  garland  on  every 
head, 

And  all  was  well  with  the  living  and  well  with  the  eight 
who  were  dead. 

Only  the  chiefs  and  the  priest  talked  and  consulted  a 
while : 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE  247 

“To-morrow,”  they  said,  and  “To-morrow,”  and  nodded 
and  seemed  to  smile: 

“Rua  the  child  of  dirt,  the  creature  of  common  clay, 

Rua  must  die  to-morrow,  since  Rua  is  gone  to-day.” 


Out  of  the  groves  of  the  valley,  where  clear  the  black¬ 
birds  sang, 

Sheer  from  the  trees  of  the  valley  the  face  of  the  moun¬ 
tain  sprang; 

Sheer  and  bare  it  rose,  unscalable  barricade, 

Beaten  and  blown  against  by  the  generous  draught  of  the 
trade. 

Dawn  on  its  fluted  brow  painted  rainbow  light, 

Close  on  its  pinnacled  crown  trembled  the  stars  at  night. 

Here  and  there  in  a  cleft  clustered  contorted  trees, 

Or  the  silver  beard  of  a  stream  hung  and  swung  in  the 
breeze. 

High  overhead,  with  a  cry,  the  torrents  leaped  for  the 
main, 

And  silently  sprinkled  below  in  thin  perennial  rain. 

Dark  in  the  staring  noon,  dark  was  Rua’s  ravine, 

Damp  and  cold  was  the  air,  and  the  face  of  the  cliffs  was 
green. 

Here,  in  the  rocky  pit,  accursed  already  of  old. 

On  a  stone  in  the  midst  of  a  river,  Rua  sat  and  was  cold. 


“Valley  of  mid-day  shadows,  valley  of  silent  falls,” 

Rua  sang,  and  his  voice  went  hollow  about  the  walls, 
“Valley  of  shadow  and  rock,  a  doleful  prison  to  me, 
What  is  the  life  you  can  give  to  a  child  of  the  sun  and 
the  sea?” 


248 


BALLADS 


And  Rua  arose  and  came  to  the  open  mouth  of  the  glen. 

Whence  he  beheld  the  woods,  and  the  sea,  and  houses  of 
men. 

Wide  blew  the  riotous  trade,  and  smelt  in  his  nostrils 
good; 

It  bowed  the  boats  on  the  bay,  and  tore  and  divided  the 
wood; 

It  smote  and  sundered  the  groves  as  Moses  smote  with 
the  rod, 

And  the  streamers  of  all  the  trees  blew  like  banners 
abroad; 

And  ever  and  on,  in  a  lull,  the  trade-wind  brought  him 
along 

A  far-off  patter  of  drums  and  a  far-off  whisper  of  song. 

Swift  as  the  swallow’s  wings,  the  diligent  hands  on  the 
drum 

Fluttered  and  hurried  and  throbbed.  “Ah,  woe  that  I 
hear  you  come,” 

Rua  cried  in  his  grief,  “a  sorrowful  sound  to  me, 

Mounting  far  and  faint  from  the  resonant  shore  of  the  sea  ! 

Woe  in  the  song !  for  the  grave  breathes  in  the  singer’s 
breath, 

And  I  hear  in  the  tramp  of  the  drums  the  beat  of  the  heart 
of  death. 

Home  of  my  youth !  no  more,  through  all  the  length  of 
the  years, 

No  more  to  the  place  of  the  echoes  of  early  laughter  and 
tears, 

No  more  shall  Rua  return;  no  more  as  the  evening  ends. 

To  crowded  eyes  of  welcome,  to  the  reaching  hands  of 
friends.” 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE  249 

All  day  long  from  the  High-place  the  drums  and  the  sing¬ 
ing  came, 

And  the  even  fell,  and  the  sun  went  down,  a  wheel  of 
flame; 

And  night  came  gleaning  the  shadows  and  hushing  the 
sounds  of  the  wood; 

And  silence  slept  on  all,  where  Rua  sorrowed  and  stood. 

But  still  from  the  shore  of  the  bay  the  sound  of  the  fes¬ 
tival  rang, 

And  still  the  crowd  in  the  High-place  danced  and  shouted 
and  sang. 

Now  over  all  the  isle  terror  was  breathed  abroad 

Of  shadowy  hands  from  the  trees  and  shadowy  snares  in 
the  sod; 

And  before  the  nostrils  of  night,  the  shuddering  hunter 
of  men 

Hurried,  with  beard  on  shoulder,  back  to  his  lighted 
den. 

“Taheia,  here  to  my  side!” — “Rua,  my  Rua,  you!” 

And  cold  from  the  clutch  of  terror,  cold  with  the  damp 
of  the  dew, 

Taheia,  heavy  of  hair,  leaped  through  the  dark  to  his 
arms; 

Taheia  leaped  to  his  clasp,  and  was  folded  in  from  alarms. 

“Rua,  beloved,  here,  see  what  your  love  has  brought; 

Coming — alas  !  returning — swift  as  the  shuttle  of  thought; 

Returning,  alas !  for  to-night,  with  the  beaten  drum  and 
the  voice, 

In  the  shine  of  many  torches  must  the  sleepless  clan  re¬ 
joice; 


250  BALLADS 

And  Taheia  the  well-descended,  the  daughter  of  chief  and 
priest, 

Taheia  must  sit  in  her  place  in  the  crowded  bench  of  the 
feast.” 

So  it  was  spoken;  and  she,  girding  her  garment  high, 

Fled  and  was  swallowed  of  woods,  swift  as  the  sight  of 
an  eye. 

Night  over  isle  and  sea  rolled  her  curtain  of  stars, 

Then  a  trouble  awoke  in  the  air,  the  east  was  banded 
with  bars; 

Dawn  as  yellow  as  sulphur  leaped  on  the  mountain  height: 

Dawn,  in  the  deepest  glen,  fell  a  wonder  of  light; 

High  and  clear  stood  the  palms  in  the  eye  of  the  bright¬ 
ening  east. 

And  lo !  from  the  sides  of  the  sea  the  broken  sound  of  the 
feast ! 

As,  when  in  days  of  summer,  through  open  windows,  the 

% 

Swift  as  a  breeze  and  loud  as  a  trump  goes  by, 

But  when  frosts  in  the  field  have  pinched  the  wintering 
mouse, 

Blindly  noses  and  buzzes  and  hums  in  the  firelit  house: 

So  the  sound  of  the  feast  gallantly  trampled  at  night, 

So  it  staggered  and  drooped,  and  droned  in  the  morning 
light. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


251 


IV 

THE  RAID 

It  chanced  that  as  Rua  sat  in  the  valley  of  silent  falls, 

He  heard  a  calling  of  doves  from  high  on  the  cliffy  walls. 

Fire  had  fashioned  of  yore,  and  time  had  broken,  the 
rocks ; 

There  were  rooting  crannies  for  trees  and  nesting-places 
for  flocks; 

And  he  saw  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs,  looking  up  from  the 
pit  of  the  shade, 

A  flicker  of  wings  and  sunshine,  and  trees  that  swung  in 
the  trade. 

“The  trees  swing  in  the  trade,”  quoth  Rua,  doubtful  of 
words, 

“And  the  sun  stares  from  the  sky,  but  what  should  trouble 
the  birds?” 

Up  from  the  shade  he  gazed,  where  high  the  parapet 
shone, 

And  he  was  aware  of  a  ledge  and  of  things  that  moved 
thereon. 

“What  manner  of  things  are  these?  Are  they  spirits 
abroad  by  day  ? 

Or  the  foes  of  my  clan  that  are  come,  bringing  death  by 
a  perilous  way?” 


The  valley  was  gouged  like  a  vessel,  and  round  like  the 
vessel’s  lip, 

With  a  cape  of  the  side  of  the  hill  thrust  forth  like  the 
bows  of  a  ship. 


252  BALLADS 

On  the  top  of  the  face  of  the  cape  a  volley  of  sun  struck 
fair. 

And  the  cape  overhung  like  a  chin  a  gulf  of  sunless  air. 

“Silence,  heart!  What  is  that? — that,  which  flickered 
and  shone, 

Into  the  sun  for  an  instant,  and  in  an  instant  gone? 

Was  it  a  warrior’s  plume,  a  warrior’s  girdle  of  hair? 

Swung  in  the  loop  of  a  rope,  is  he  making  a  bridge  of  the 

•  «)  >> 
air  r 

Once  and  again  Rua  saw,  in  the  trenchant  edge  of  the 
sky, 

The  giddy  conjuring  done.  And  then,  in  the  blink  of  an 
eye, 

A  scream  caught  in  with  the  breath,  a  whirling  packet  of 
limbs, 

A  lump  that  dived  in  the  gulf,  more  swift  than  a  dolphin 
swims; 

And  there  was  the  lump  at  his  feet,  and  eyes  were  alive 
in  the  lump. 

Sick  was  the  soul  of  Rua,  ambushed  close  in  a  clump; 

Sick  of  soul  he  drew  near,  making  his  courage  stout; 

And  he  looked  in  the  face  of  the  thing,  and  the  life  of  the 
thing  went  out. 

And  he  gazed  on  the  tattooed  limbs,  and,  behold,  he  knew 
the  man: 

Hoka,  a  chief  of  the  Vais,  the  truculent  foe  of  his  clan: 

Hoka  a  moment  since  that  stepped  in  the  loop  of  the 
rope, 

Filled  with  the  lust  of  war,  and  alive  with  courage  and 
hope. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


253 


Again  to  the  giddy  cornice  Rua  lifted  his  eyes, 

And  again  beheld  men  passing  in  the  armpit  of  the 
skies. 

“Foes  of  my  race!”  cried  Rua,  “the  mouth  of  Rua  is 
true: 

Never  a  shark  in  the  deep  is  nobler  of  soul  than  you. 

There  was  never  a  nobler  foray,  never  a  bolder  plan; 

Never  a  dizzier  path  was  trod  by  the  children  of  man; 

And  Rua,  your  evil-dealer  through  all  the  days  of  his 
years, 

Counts  it  honour  to  hate  you,  honour  to  fall  by  your 
spears.” 

And  Rua  straightened  his  back.  “0  Vais,  a  scheme  for 
a  scheme !” 

Cried  Rua  and  turned  and  descended  the  turbulent  stair 
of  the  stream, 

Leaping  from  rock  to  rock  as  the  water-wagtail  at  home 

Flits  through  resonant  valleys  and  skims  by  boulder  and 
foam. 

And  Rua  burst  from  the  glen  and  leaped  on  the  shore  of 
the  brook. 

And  straight  for  the  roofs  of  the  clan  his  vigorous  wray 
he  took. 

Swift  were  the  heels  of  his  flight,  and  loud  behind  as  he 
went 

Rattled  the  leaping  stones  on  the  line  of  his  long  descent. 

And  ever  he  thought  as  he  ran,  and  caught  at  his  gasping 
breath, 

“0  the  fool  of  a  Rua,  Rua  that  runs  to  his  death ! 

But  the  right  is  the  right,”  thought  Rua,  and  ran  like  the 
wind  on  the  foam, 

“The  right  is  the  right  for  ever,  and  home  for  ever  home. 


254  BALLADS 

For  what  though  the  oven  smoke?  And  what  though  I 
die  ere  morn? 

There  was  I  nourished  and  tended,  and  there  was  Taheia 
born.” 

Noon  was  high  on  the  High-place,  the  second  noon  of  the 
feast; 

And  heat  and  shameful  slumber  weighed  on  people  and 
priest; 

And  the  heart  drudged  slow  in  bodies  heavy  with  mon¬ 
strous  meals; 

And  the  senseless  limbs  were  scattered  abroad  like  spokes 
of  wheels; 

And  crapulous  women  sat  and  stared  at  the  stones  anigh 

With  a  bestial  droop  of  the  lip  and  a  swinish  rheum  in  the 
eye. 

As  about  the  dome  of  the  bees  in  the  time  for  the  drones 
to  fall. 

The  dead  and  the  maimed  are  scattered,  and  lie,  and 
stagger,  and  crawl; 

So  on  the  grades  of  the  terrace,  in  the  ardent  eye  of  the 

day, 

The  half-awake  and  the  sleepers  clustered  and  crawled 
and  lay; 

And  loud  as  the  dome  of  the  bees,  in  the  time  of  a  swarm¬ 
ing  horde, 

A  horror  of  many  insects  hung  in  the  air  and  roared. 

Rua  looked  and  wondered;  he  said  to  himself  in  his  heart: 

“Poor  are  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  death  is  the  better 
part.” 

But  lo !  on  the  higher  benches  a  cluster  of  tranquil  folk 

Sat  by  themselves,  nor  raised  their  serious  eyes,  nor 
spoke : 


THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 


255 


Women  with  robes  unruffled  and  garlands  duly  arranged, 

Gazing  far  from  the  feast  with  faces  of  people  estranged; 

And  quiet  amongst  the  quiet,  and  fairer  than  all  the  fair, 

Taheia,  the  well-descended,  Taheia,  heavy  of  hair. 

And  the  soul  of  Rua  awoke,  courage  enlightened  his 
eyes, 

And  he  uttered  a  summoning  shout  and  called  on  the  clan 
to  rise. 

Over  against  him  at  once,  in  the  spotted  shade  of  the 
trees, 

Owlish  and  blinking  creatures  scrambled  to  hands  and 
knees ; 

On  the  grades  of  the  sacred  terrace,  the  driveller  woke  to 
fear, 

And  the  hand  of  the  ham -drooped  warrior  brandished  a 
wavering  spear. 

And  Rua  folded  his  arms,  and  scorn  discovered  his  teeth; 

Above  the  war-crowd  gibbered,  and  Rua  stood  smiling 
beneath. 

Thick,  like  leaves  in  the  autumn,  faint,  like  April  sleet, 

Missiles  from  tremulous  hands  quivered  around  his  feet; 

And  Taheia  leaped  from  her  place;  and  the  priest,  the 
ruby-eyed, 

Ran  to  the  front  of  the  terrace,  and  brandished  his  arms, 
and  cried: 

“Hold,  O  fools,  he  brings  tidings!”  and  “Hold,  ’tis  the 
love  of  my  heart !  ” 

Till  lo !  in  front  of  the  terrace,  Rua  pierced  with  a  dart. 

Taheia  cherished  his  head,  and  the  aged  priest  stood  by. 

And  gazed  with  eyes  of  ruby  at  Rua’s  darkening  eye. 

“Taheia,  here  is  the  end,  I  die  a  death  for  a  man. 


256  BALLADS 

I  have  given  the  life  of  my  soul  to  save  an  unsav- 
able  clan ! 

See  them,  the  drooping  of  hams  !  behold  me  the  blinking 
crew: 

Fifty  spears  they  cast,  and  one  of  fifty  true  ! 

And  you,  0  priest,  the  foreteller,  foretell  for  yourself  if 
you  can, 

Foretell  the  hour  of  the  day  when  the  Vais  shall  burst  on 
your  clan ! 

By  the  head  of  the  tapu  cleft,  with  death  and  fire  in  their 
hand, 

Thick  and  silent  like  ants,  the  warriors  swarm  in  the 
land.” 

And  they  tell  that  when  next  the  sun  had  climbed  to  the 
noonday  skies, 

It  shone  on  the  smoke  of  feasting  in  the  country  of  the 
Vais. 


TICONDEROGA : 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WEST  HIGHLANDS 


TICONDEROGA 


THIS  is  the  tale  of  the  man 

Who  heard  a  word  in  the  night 
In  the  land  of  the  heathery  hills, 

In  the  days  of  the  feud  and  the  fight. 
By  the  sides  of  the  rainy  sea, 

Where  never  a  stranger  came, 

On  the  awful  lips  of  the  dead, 

He  heard  the  outlandish  name. 

It  sang  in  his  sleeping  ears, 

It  hummed  in  his  waking  head: 

The  name — Ticonderoga, 

The  utterance  of  the  dead. 

i 

THE  SAYING  OF  THE  NAME 

On  the  loch-sides  of  Appin, 

When  the  mist  blew  from  the  sea, 

A  Stewart  stood  with  a  Cameron: 

An  angry  man  was  he. 

The  blood  beat  in  his  ears, 

The  blood  ran  hot  to  his  head, 

The  mist  blew  from  the  sea, 

And  there  was  the  Cameron  dead. 

“0,  what  have  I  done  to  my  friend, 

0,  what  have  I  done  to  mysel’, 

That  he  should  be  cold  and  dead, 

259 


260 


BALLADS 


And  I  in  the  danger  of  all? 

Nothing  but  danger  about  me, 

Danger  behind  and  before, 

Death  at  wait  in  the  heather 
In  Appin  and  Mamore, 

Hate  at  all  of  the  ferries 

And  death  at  each  of  the  fords, 
Camerons  priming  gun-locks 

And  Camerons  sharpening  swords.” 

But  this  was  a  man  of  counsel, 

This  was  a  man  of  a  score, 

There  dwelt  no  pawkier  Stewart 
In  Appin  or  Mamore. 

He  looked  on  the  blowing  mist. 

He  looked  on  the  awful  dead. 

And  there  came  a  smile  on  his  face 

And  there  slipped  a  thought  in  his  head. 

Out  over  cairn  and  moss, 

Out  over  scrog  and  scaur. 

He  ran  as  runs  the  clansman 
That  bears  the  cross  of  war. 

His  heart  beat  in  his  body, 

His  hair  clove  to  his  face, 

When  he  came  at  last  in  the  gloaming 
To  the  dead  man’s  brother’s  place. 

The  east  was  white  with  the  moon, 

The  west  with  the  sun  was  red, 

And  there,  in  the  house-doorway. 

Stood  the  brother  of  the  dead. 


TICONDEROGA 


261 


“ I  have  slain  a  man  to  my  danger, 

I  have  slain  a  man  to  my  death. 

I  put  my  soul  in  your  hands/’ 

The  panting  Stewart  saith. 

“I  lay  it  bare  in  your  hands, 

For  I  know  your  hands  are  leal; 

And  be  you  my  targe  and  bulwark 
From  the  bullet  and  the  steel.” 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Cameron, 

And  gave  him  his  hand  again: 

“There  shall  never  a  man  in  Scotland 
Set  faith  in  me  in  vain; 

And  whatever  man  you  have  slaughtered, 
Of  whatever  name  or  line, 

By  my  sword  and  yonder  mountain, 

I  make  your  quarrel  mine.1 

I  bid  you  in  to  my  fireside, 

I  share  with  you  house  and  hall; 

It  stands  upon  my  honour 
To  see  you  safe  from  all.” 

It  fell  in  the  time  of  midnight, 

When  the  fox  barked  in  the  den, 

And  the  plaids  were  over  the  faces 
In  all  the  houses  of  men, 

That  as  the  living  Cameron 
Lay  sleepless  on  his  bed, 

Out  of  the  night  and  the  other  world, 
Came  in  to  him  the  dead. 


262 


BALLADS 


“My  blood  is  on  the  heather. 

My  bones  are  on  the  hill; 

There  is  joy  in  the  home  of  ravens 
That  the  young  shall  eat  their  fill. 

My  blood  is  poured  in  the  dust, 

My  soul  is  spilled  in  the  air; 

And  the  man  that  has  undone  me 
Sleeps  in  my  brother’s  care.” 

“I’m  wae  for  your  death,  my  brother, 
But  if  all  of  my  house  were  dead, 

I  couldna  withdraw  the  plighted  hand, 
Nor  break  the  word  once  said.” 

“O,  what  shall  I  say  to  our  father, 

In  the  place  to  which  I  fare? 

O,  what  shall  I  say  to  our  mother, 

Who  greets  to  see  me  there? 

And  to  all  the  kindly  Camerons 

That  have  lived  and  died  long-syne — 

Is  this  the  word  you  send  them, 
Fause-hearted  brother  mine?” 

“It’s  neither  fear  nor  duty. 

It’s  neither  quick  nor  dead 

Shall  gar  me  withdraw  the  plighted  hand, 
Or  break  the  word  once  said.” 

Thrice  in  the  time  of  midnight, 

When  the  fox  barked  in  the  den, 

And  the  plaids  were  over  the  faces 
In  all  the  houses  of  men, 


263 


TICONDEROGA 

Thrice  as  the  living  Cameron 
Lay  sleepless  on  his  bed, 

Out  of  the  night  and  the  other  world 
Came  in  to  him  the  dead, 

And  cried  to  him  for  vengeance 
On  the  man  that  laid  him  low; 
And  thrice  the  living  Cameron 
Told  the  dead  Cameron,  no. 

“  Thrice  have  you  seen  me,  brother. 
But  now  shall  see  me  no  more, 

Till  you  meet  your  angry  fathers 
Upon  the  farther  shore. 

Thrice  have  I  spoken,  and  now. 
Before  the  cock  be  heard, 

I  take  my  leave  for  ever 
With  the  naming  of  a  word. 

It  shall  sing  in  your  sleeping  ears. 

It  shall  hum  in  your  waking  head, 
The  name — Ticonderoga, 

And  the  warning  of  the  dead.” 

Now  when  the  night  was  over 
And  the  time  of  people’s  fears, 

The  Cameron  walked  abroad, 

And  the  word  was  in  his  ears. 

“Many  a  name  I  know, 

But  never  a  name  like  this; 

O,  where  shall  I  find  a  skilly  man 
Shall  tell  me  what  it  is?” 


264 


BALLADS 


With  many  a  man  he  counselled 
Of  high  and  low  degree, 

With  the  herdsmen  on  the  mountains 
And  the  fishers  of  the  sea. 

And  he  came  and  went  unweary, 

And  read  the  books  of  yore, 

And  the  runes  that  were  written  of  old 
On  stones  upon  the  moor. 

And  many  a  name  he  was  told, 

But  never  the  name  of  his  fears — 
Never,  in  east  or  west, 

The  name  that  rang  in  his  ears: 

Names  of  men  and  of  clans, 

Names  for  the  grass  and  the  tree, 

For  the  smallest  tarn  in  the  mountains. 
The  smallest  reef  in  the  sea: 

Names  for  the  high  and  low, 

The  names  of  the  craig  and  the  flat; 
But  in  all  the  land  of  Scotland, 

Never  a  name  like  that. 

ii 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  NAME 

And  now  there  was  speech  in  the  south. 
And  a  man  of  the  south  that  was  wise, 
A  periwig’d  lord  of  London,2 
Called  on  the  clans  to  rise. 

And  the  riders  rode,  and  the  summons 
Came  to  the  western  shore, 

To  the  land  of  the  sea  and  the  heather. 
To  Appin  and  Mamore. 


TICONDEROGA 


265 


It  called  on  all  to  gather 
From  every  scrog  and  scaur. 

That  loved  their  fathers’  tartan 
And  the  ancient  game  of  war. 

And  down  the  watery  valley 
And  up  the  windy  hill. 

Once  more,  as  in  the  olden. 

The  pipes  were  sounding  shrill; 
Again  in  Highland  sunshine 
The  naked  steel  was  bright; 

And  the  lads,  once  more  in  tartan. 
Went  forth  again  to  fight. 

“0,  why  should  I  dwell  here 
With  a  weird  upon  my  life, 

When  the  clansmen  shout  for  battle 
And  the  war-swords  clash  in  strife? 
I  canna  joy  at  feast, 

I  canna  sleep  in  bed. 

For  the  wonder  of  the  word 
And  the  warning  of  the  dead. 

It  sings  in  my  sleeping  ears, 

It  hums  in  my  waking  head, 

The  name — Ticonderoga, 

The  utterance  of  the  dead. 

Then  up,  and  with  the  fighting  men 
To  march  away  from  here. 

Till  the  cry  of  the  great  war-pipe 
Shall  drown  it  in  my  ear !  ” 


266 


BALLADS 


Where  flew  King  George’s  ensign 
The  plaided  soldiers  went: 

They  drew  the  sword  in  Germany, 

In  Flanders  pitched  the  tent. 

The  bells  of  foreign  cities 
Rang  far  across  the  plain: 

They  passed  the  happy  Rhine, 

They  drank  the  rapid  Main. 

Through  Asiatic  jungles 

The  Tartans  filed  their  way, 

And  the  neighing  of  the  war-pipes 
Struck  terror  in  Cathay.3 

“Many  a  name  have  I  heard,”  he  thought, 
“In  all  the  tongues  of  men, 

Full  many  a  name  both  here  and  there, 
Full  many  both  now  and  then. 

When  I  was  at  home  in  my  father’s  house 
In  the  land  of  the  naked  knee, 

Between  the  eagles  that  fly  in  the  lift 
And  the  herrings  that  swim  in  the  sea, 
And  now  that  I  am  a  captain-man 
With  a  braw  cockade  in  my  hat — 

Many  a  name  have  I  heard,”  he  thought, 
“But  never  a  name  like  that.” 


TICONDEROGA 


267 


hi 

THE  PLACE  OF  THE  NAME 

There  fell  a  war  in  a  woody  place, 

Lay  far  across  the  sea, 

A  war  of  the  march  in  the  mirk  midnight 
And  the  shot  from  behind  the  tree. 

The  shaven  head  and  the  painted  face, 

The  silent  foot  in  the  wood, 

In  a  land  of  a  strange,  outlandish  tongue 
That  was  hard  to  be  understood. 

It  fell  about  the  gloaming. 

The  general  stood  with  his  staff, 

He  stood  and  he  looked  east  and  west 
With  little  mind  to  laugh. 

“Far  have  I  been,  and  much  have  I  seen. 

And  kennt  both  gain  and  loss, 

But  here  we  have  woods  on  every  hand 
And  a  kittle  water  to  cross. 

Far  have  I  been  and  much  have  I  seen, 

But  never  the  beat  of  this; 

And  there’s  one  must  go  down  to  that  water-side 
To  see  how  deep  it  is.” 

It  fell  in  the  dusk  of  the  night 
When  unco  things  betide, 

The  skilly  captain,  the  Cameron, 

Went  down  to  that  water-side. 

Canny  and  soft  the  captain  went; 

And  a  man  of  the  woody  land, 


268 


BALLADS 


With  the  shaven  head  and  the  painted  face, 
Went  down  at  his  right  hand. 

It  fell  in  the  quiet  night, 

There  was  never  a  sound  to  ken; 

But  all  of  the  woods  to  the  right  and  the  left 
Lay  filled  with  the  painted  men. 

“Far  have  I  been  and  much  have  I  seen. 
Both  as  a  man  and  boy. 

But  never  have  I  set  forth  a  foot 
On  so  perilous  an  employ.” 

It  fell  in  the  dusk  of  the  night 
When  unco  things  betide, 

That  he  was  aware  of  a  captain-man 
Drew  near  to  the  water-side. 

He  was  aware  of  his  coming 
Down  in  the  gloaming  alone; 

And  he  looked  in  the  face  of  the  man 
And  lo !  the  face  was  his  own. 

“This  is  my  weird,”  he  said, 

“And  now  I  ken  the  worst; 

For  many  shall  fall  the  morn, 

But  I  shall  fall  with  the  first. 

O,  you  of  the  outland  tongue. 

You  of  the  painted  face, 

This  is  the  place  of  my  death; 

Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  place?” 

“Since  the  Frenchmen  have  been  here 
They  have  called  it  Sault-Marie; 

But  that  is  a  name  for  priests. 


TICONDEROGA 


269 


And  not  for  you  and  me. 

It  went  by  another  word,” 

Quoth  he  of  the  shaven  head: 

"It  was  called  Ticonderoga 

In  the  days  of  the  great  dead.” 

And  it  fell  on  the  morrow’s  morning. 
In  the  fiercest  of  the  fight, 

That  the  Cameron  bit  the  dust 
As  he  foretold  at  night; 

And  far  from  the  hills  of  heather. 
Far  from  the  isles  of  the  sea. 

He  sleeps  in  the  place  of  the  name 
As  it  was  doomed  to  be. 


HEATHER  ALE 


A  GALLOWAY  LEGEND 


s 


HEATHER  ALE 

A  GALLOWAY  LEGEND 


FROM  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 
They  brewed  a  drink  long-syne, 
Was  sweeter  far  than  honey, 

Was  stronger  far  than  wine. 

They  brewed  it  and  they  drank  it. 
And  lay  in  a  blessed  swound 
For  days  and  days  together 
In  their  dwellings  underground. 

There  rose  a  king  in  Scotland, 

A  fell  man  to  his  foes, 

He  smote  the  Piets  in  battle. 

He  hunted  them  like  roes. 

Over  miles  of  the  red  mountain 
He  hunted  as  they  fled, 

And  strewed  the  dwarfish  bodies 
Of  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Summer  came  in  the  country, 

Red  was  the  heather  bell; 

But  the  manner  of  the  brewing 
Was  none  alive  to  tell. 

In  graves  that  were  like  children’s 
On  many  a  mountain  head, 

The  Brewsters  of  the  Heather 
Lay  numbered  with  the  dead. 

273 


274 


BALLADS 


The  king  in  the  red  moorland 
Rode  on  a  summer’s  day; 

And  the  bees  hummed,  and  the  curlews 
Cried  beside  the  way. 

The  king  rode,  and  was  angry. 

Black  was  his  brow  and  pale, 

To  rule  in  a  land  of  heather 
And  lack  the  Heather  Ale. 

It  fortuned  that  his  vassals. 

Riding  free  on  the  heath, 

Came  on  a  stone  that  was  fallen 
And  vermin  hid  beneath. 

Rudely  plucked  from  their  hiding, 
Never  a  word  they  spoke: 

A  son  and  his  aged  father — 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  folk. 

The  king  sat  high  on  his  charger. 

He  looked  on  the  little  men; 

And  the  dwarfish  and  swarthy  couple 
Looked  at  the  king  again. 

Down  by  the  shore  he  had  them; 

And  there  on  the  giddy  brink — 

“I  will  give  you  life,  ye  vermin. 

For  the  secret  of  the  drink.” 

There  stood  the  son  and  father 
And  they  looked  high  and  low; 

The  heather  was  red  around  them, 

The  sea  rumbled  below. 


HEATHER  ALE 


275 

And  up  and  spoke  the  father, 

Shrill  was  his  voice  to  hear: 

“I  have  a  word  in  private, 

A  word  for  the  royal  ear. 

“Life  is  dear  to  the  aged, 

And  honour  a  little  thing; 

I  would  gladly  sell  the  secret,” 

Quoth  the  Piet  to  the  King. 

His  voice  w’as  small  as  a  sparrow’s. 

And  shrill  and  wonderful  clear: 

“I  would  gladly  sell  my  secret. 

Only  my  son  I  fear. 

“For  life  is  a  little  matter, 

And  death  is  nought  to  the  young; 

And  I  dare  not  sell  my  honour 
Under  the  eye  of  my  son. 

Take  him ,  O  king,  and  bind  him, 

And  cast  him  far  in  the  deep; 

And  it’s  I  will  tell  the  secret 
That  I  have  sworn  to  keep.” 

They  took  the  son  and  bound  him. 

Neck  and  heels  in  a  thong, 

And  a  lad  took  him  and  swung  him, 

And  flung  him  far  and  strong. 

And  the  sea  swallowed  his  body, 

Like  that  of  a  child  of  ten; — 

And  there  on  the  cliff  stood  the  father, 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  men. 


276 


BALLADS 


‘‘True  was  the  word  I  told  you: 

Only  my  son  I  feared; 

For  I  doubt  the  sapling  courage 
That  goes  without  the  beard. 
But  now  in  vain  is  the  torture, 
Fire  shall  never  avail: 

Here  dies  in  my  bosom 

The  secret  of  Heather  Ale.” 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 


THE  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked 
hand; 

The  decks  were  like  a  slide,  where  a  seaman  scarce  could 
stand; 

The  wind  was  a  nor ’wester,  blowing  squally  off  the  sea; 
And  cliffs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  things 
a-lee. 


They  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of  day; 

But ’t  was  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill  we 
lay. 

We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck  instanter,  with  a  shout. 

And  we  gave  her  the  maintops’!,  and  stood  by  to  go 
about. 

All  day  we  tacked  and  tacked  between  the  South  Head 
and  the  North; 

All  day  we  hauled  the  frozen  sheets,  and  got  no  further 
forth; 

All  day  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread. 

For  very  life  and  nature  we  tacked  from  head  to  head. 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide  race 
roared; 

But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head 
close  aboard: 


279 


BALLADS 


280 

So’s  we  saw  the  cliffs  and  houses,  and  the  breakers  run¬ 
ning  high, 

And  the  coastguard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass  against 
his  eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean  foam; 

The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every  ’longshore 
home; 

The  windows  sparkled  clear,  and  the  chimneys  volleyed 
out; 

And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went 
about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty  jovial 
cheer; 

For  it’s  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days  in  the 
year) 

This  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn, 

And  the  house  above  the  coastguard’s  was  the  house 
where  I  was  born. 

O  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasant  faces  there, 

My  mother’s  silver  spectacles,  my  father’s  silver  hair; 

And  well  I  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  flight  of  homely  elves, 

Go  dancing  round  the  china-plates  that  stand  upon  the 
shelves. 

And  well  I  knew  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was  of 
me, 

Of  the  shadow  on  the  household  and  the  son  that  went 
to  sea; 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 


281 


And  O  the  wicked  fool  I  seemed,  in  every  kind  of  way, 

To  be  here  and  hauling  frozen  ropes  on  blessM  Christmas 
Day. 

They  lit  the  high  sea-light,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 

“All  hands  to  loose  topgallant  sails,”  I  heard  the  captain 
call. 

“By  the  Lord,  she’ll  never  stand  it,”  our  first  mate,  Jack- 
son,  cried. 

.  .  .  “It’s  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson,”  he 
replied. 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new  and 
good. 

And  the  ship  smelt  up  to  windward  just  as  though  she 
understood. 

As  the  winter’s  day  was  ending,  in  the  entry  of  the  night, 

We  cleared  the  weary  headland,  and  passed  below  the 
light. 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on  board 
but  me, 

As  they  saw  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out  to 
sea; 

But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the 
cold, 

Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were 
growing  old. 


NOTES 


NOTES  TO  THE  SONG  OF  RAHERO 

Introduction. — This  tale,  of  which  I  have  not  consciously 
changed  a  single  feature,  I  received  from  tradition.  It  is  highly 
popular  through  all  the  country  of  the  eight  Tevas,  the  clan  to 
which  Rahero  belonged;  and  particularly  in  Taiarapu,  the  wind¬ 
ward  peninsula  of  Tahiti,  where  he  lived.  I  have  heard  from 
end  to  end  two  versions;  and  as  many  as  five  different  persons 
have  helped  me  with  details.  There  seems  no  reason  why  the 
tale  should  not  be  true. 

Note  1.  “  The  aito,”  quasi  champion,  or  brave.  One  skilled 

in  the  use  of  some  weapon,  who  wandered  the  country  chal¬ 
lenging  distinguished  rivals  and  taking  part  in  local  quarrels. 
It  was  in  the  natural  course  of  his  advancement  to  be  at 
last  employed  by  a  chief,  or  king;  and  it  would  then  be  a  part 
of  his  duties  to  purvey  the  victim  for  sacrifice.  One  of  the 
doomed  families  was  indicated;  the  aito  took  his  weapon  and 
went  forth  alone;  a  little  behind  him  bearers  followed  with  the 
sacrificial  basket.  Sometimes  the  victim  showed  fight,  some¬ 
times  prevailed;  more  often,  without  doubt,  he  fell.  But  what¬ 
ever  body  was  found,  the  bearers  indifferently  took  up. 

Note  2.  “  Pai,”  “ Honoura ,”  and  “Ahupu.”  Legendary 

persons  of  Tahiti,  all  natives  of  Taiarapu.  Of  the  two  first, 
I  have  collected  singular,  although  imperfect,  legends,  which 
I  hope  soon  to  lay  before  the  public  in  another  place.  Of 
Ahupu,  except  in  snatches  of  song,  little  memory  appears  to 
linger.  She  dwelt  at  least  about  Tepari, — “the  sea-cliffs,” — ■ 
the  eastern  fastness  of  the  isle;  walked  by  paths  known  only  to 
herself  upon  the  mountains;  was  courted  by  dangerous  suitors 
who  came  swimming  from  adjacent  islands,  and  defended  and 
rescued  (as  I  gather)  by  the  loyalty  of  native  fish.  My  anxiety 

282 


NOTES 


283 


to  learn  more  of  “Ahupu  Vehine”  became  (during  my  stay  in 
Taiarapu)  a  cause  of  some  diversion  to  that  mirthful  people, 
the  inhabitants. 

Note  3.  “ Covered  an  oven”  The  cooking  fire  is  made  in  a 

hole  in  the  ground,  and  is  then  buried. 

Note  4.  “Flies.”  This  is  perhaps  an  anachronism.  Even 
speaking  of  to-day  in  Tahiti,  the  phrase  would  have  to  be 
understood  as  referring  mainly  to  mosquitoes,  and  these  only  in 
watered  valleys  with  close  woods,  such  as  I  suppose  to  form  the 
surroundings  of  Rahero’s  homestead.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
where  the  air  moves  freely,  you  shall  look  in  vain  for  one. 

Note  5.  “Hook”  of  mother-of-pearl.  Bright-hook  fishing, 
and  that  with  the  spear,  appear  to  be  the  favourite  native 
methods. 

Note  6.  “Leaves,”  the  plates  of  Tahiti. 

Note  7.  “Yottoivas,”  so  spelt  for  convenience  of  pronuncia¬ 
tion,  quasi  Tacksmen  in  the  Scottish  Highlands.  The  organisa¬ 
tion  of  eight  sub-districts  and  eight  yottowas  to  a  division,  which 
was  in  use  (until  yesterday)  among  the  Tevas,  I  have  attributed 
without  authority  to  the  next  clan:  see  verses  341-2. 

Note  8.  “  Omare”  pronounce  as  a  dactyl.  A  loaded  quarter- 

staff,  one  of  the  two  favourite  weapons  of  the  Tahitian  brave: 
the  javelin,  or  casting  spear,  was  the  other. 

Note  9.  “The  ribbon  of  light.”  Still  to  be  seen  (and  heard) 
spinning  from  one  marae  to  another  on  Tahiti;  or  so  I  have  it 
upon  evidence  that  would  rejoice  the  Psychical  Society. 

Note  10.  “  Ndmunu-tira.”  The  complete  name  is  Namunu- 
ura  te  aropa.  Why  it  should  be  pronounced  Namunu,  dactyl- 
ically,  I  cannot  see,  but  so  I  have  always  heard  it.  This  was 
the  clan  immediately  beyond  the  Tevas  on  the  south  coast  of 


284 


NOTES 


the  island.  At  the  date  of  the  tale  the  clan  organisation  must 
have  been  very  weak.  There  is  no  particular  mention  of  Ta- 
matea’s  mother  going  to  P&para,  to  the  head  chief  of  her  own 
clan,  which  would  appear  her  natural  recourse.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  seems  to  have  visited  various  lesser  chiefs  among  the 
Tevas,  and  these  to  have  excused  themselves  solely  on  the  dan¬ 
ger  of  the  enterprise.  The  broad  distinction  here  drawn  be¬ 
tween  Nateva  and  Namunu-ura  is  therefore  not  impossibly 
anachronistic. 

Note  11.  “ Iliopa  the  Icing.”  Hiopa  was  really  the  name  of 
the  king  (chief)  of  Vaiau;  but  I  could  never  learn  that  of  the 
king  of  Paea — pronounce  to  rhyme  with  the  Indian  ayah — and 
I  gave  the  name  where  it  was  most  needed.  This  note  must 
appear  otiose  indeed  to  readers  who  have  never  heard  of  either 
of  these  two  gentlemen;  and  perhaps  there  is  only  one  person 
in  the  world  capable  at  once  of  reading  my  verses  and  spying 
the  inaccuracy.  For  him,  for  Mr.  Tati  Salmon,  hereditary  high 
chief  of  the  Tevas,  the  note  is  solely  written:  a  small  attention 
from  a  clansman  to  his  chief. 

Note  12.  “Let  the  pigs  he  tapu  .”  It  is  impossible  to  explain 
tapu  in  a  note;  we  have  it  as  an  English  word,  taboo.  Suffice  it, 
that  a  thing  which  was  tapu  must  not  be  touched,  nor  a  place 
that  was  tapu  visited. 

Note  13.  “Fish,  the  food  of  desire”  There  is  a  special  word 
in  the  Tahitian  language  to  signify  hungering  after  fish.  I  may 
remark  that  here  is  one  of  my  chief  difficulties  about  the  whole 
story.  How  did  king,  commons,  women,  and  all  come  to  eat  to¬ 
gether  at  this  feast  ?  But  it  troubled  none  of  my  numerous  au¬ 
thorities;  so  there  must  certainly  be  some  natural  explanation. 

Note  14.  “  The  mustering  word  of  the  clan.” 

Teva  te  ua , 

Teva  te  matai ! 

Teva  the  wind, 

Teva  the  rain  ! 


NOTES 


285 


Note  15.  Note  16.  “  The  star  of  the  dead.”  Venus  as  a 

morning  star.  I  have  collected  much  curious  evidence  as  to 
this  belief.  The  dead  retain  their  taste  for  a  fish  diet,  enter 
into  copartnery  with  living  fishers,  and  haunt  the  reef  and  the 
lagoon.  The  conclusion  attributed  to  the  nameless  lady  of  the 
legend  would  be  reached  to-day,  under  the  like  circumstances, 
by  ninety  per  cent,  of  Polynesians;  and  here  I  probably  under¬ 
state  by  one-tenth. 

NOTES  TO  THE  FEAST  OF  FAMINE 

In  this  ballad  I  have  strung  together  some  of  the  more  striking 
particularities  of  the  Marquesas.  It  rests  upon  no  authority; 
it  is  in  no  sense,  like  “Rahero,”  a  native  story;  but  a  patchwork 
of  details  of  manners  and  the  impressions  of  a  traveller.  It 
may  seem  strange,  when  the  scene  is  laid  upon  these  profligate 
islands,  to  make  the  story  hinge  on  love.  But  love  is  not  less 
known  in  the  Marquesas  than  elsewhere;  nor  is  there  any  cause 
of  suicide  more  common  in  the  islands. 

Note  1.  “Pit  of  popoi.”  Where  the  bread-fruit  was  stored 
for  preservation. 

Note  2.  “Ruby-red.”  The  priest’s  eyes  were  probably  red 
from  the  abuse  of  kava.  His  beard  (verse  18)  is  said  to  be 
worth  an  estate;  for  the  beards  of  old  men  are  the  favourite 
head-adornment  of  the  Marquesans,  as  the  hair  of  women  formed 
their  most  costly  girdle.  The  former,  among  this  generally 
beardless  and  short-lived  people,  fetch  to-day  considerable  sums. 

Note  3.  “  Tikis.”  The  tiki  is  an  ugly  image  hewn  out  of 
wood  or  stone. 

Note  4.  “  The  one-stringed  harp.”  Usually  employed  for 

serenades. 

Note  5.  “  The  sacred  cabin  of  palm.”  Which,  however,  no 

woman  could  approach.  I  do  not  know  where  women  were 


286 


NOTES 


tattooed;  probably  in  the  common  house,  or  in  the  bush, 
for  a  woman  was  a  creature  of  small  account.  I  must  guard 
the  reader  against  supposing  Taheia  was  at  all  disfigured;  the 
art  of  the  Marquesan  tattooer  is  extreme;  and  she  would  appear 
to  be  clothed  in  a  web  of  lace,  inimitably  delicate,  exquisite  in 
pattern,  and  of  a  bluish  hue  that  at  once  contrasts  and  harmo¬ 
nises  with  the  warm  pigment  of  the  native  skin.  It  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  woman  more  becomingly  adorned  than  “a  well 
tattooed”  Marquesan. 

Note  6.  “  The  horror  of  night.”  The  Polynesian  fear  of 

ghosts  and  of  the  dark  has  been  already  referred  to.  Their  life 
is  beleaguered  by  the  dead. 

Note  7.  “The  quiet  passage  of  souls”  So,  I  am  told,  the 
natives  explain  the  sound  of  a  little  wind  passing  overhead  unfelt. 

Note  8.  “  The  first  of  the  victims  fell.”  Without  doubt,  this 

whole  scene  is  untrue  to  fact.  The  victims  were  disposed  of 
privately  and  some  time  before.  And  indeed  I  am  far  from 
claiming  the  credit  of  any  high  degree  of  accuracy  for  this  ballad. 
Even  in  a  time  of  famine,  it  is  probable  that  Marquesan  life  went 
far  more  gaily  than  is  here  represented.  But  the  melancholoy 
of  to-day  lies  on  the  writer’s  mind. 


NOTES  TO  TICONDEROGA 

Introduction. — I  first  heard  this  legend  of  my  own  country 
from  that  friend  of  men  of  letters,  Mr.  Alfred  Nutt,  “there  in 
roaring  London’s  central  stream”;  and  since  the  ballad  first 
saw  the  light  of  day  in  Scribner’s  Magazine ,  Mr.  Nutt  and  Lord 
Archibald  Campbell  have  been  in  public  controversy  on  the 
facts.  Two  clans,  the  Camerons  and  the  Campbells,  lay  claim 
to  this  bracing  story;  and  they  do  well:  the  man  who  preferred 
his  plighted  troth  to  the  commands  and  menaces  of  the  dead 
is  an  ancestor  worth  disputing.  But  the  Campbells  must  rest 
content:  they  have  the  broad  lands  and  the  broad  page  of  his- 


NOTES 


287 


tory;  this  appanage  must  be  denied  them;  for  between  the  name 
of  Cameron  and  that  of  Campbell ,  the  muse  will  never  hesitate. 

Note  1.  Mr.  Nutt  reminds  me  it  was  “by  my  sword  and  Ben 
Cruachan”  the  Cameron  swore. 

Note  2.  “  A  periwig’ d  lord  of  London .”  The  first  Pitt. 

Note  3.  “Cathay.”  There  must  be  some  omission  in  General 
Stewart’s  charming  History  of  the  Highland  Regiments,  a  book 
that  might  well  be  republished  and  continued;  or  it  scarce  ap¬ 
pears  how  our  friend  could  have  got  to  China. 


NOTE  TO  HEATHER  ALE 

Among  the  curiosities  of  human  nature,  this  legend  claims  a 
high  place.  It  is  needless  to  remind  the  reader  that  the  Piets 
were  never  exterminated,  and  form  to  this  day  a  large  propor¬ 
tion  of  the  folk  of  Scotland:  occupying  the  eastern  and  the  cen¬ 
tral  parts,  from  the  Firth  of  Forth,  or  perhaps  the  Lammer- 
moors,  upon  the  south,  to  the  Ord  of  Caithness  on  the  north. 
That  the  blundering  guess  of  a  dull  chronicler  should  have  in¬ 
spired  men  with  imaginary  loathing  for  their  own  ancestors  is 
already  strange:  that  it  should  have  begotten  this  wild  legend 
seems  incredible.  Is  it  possible  the  chronicler’s  error  was  merely 
nominal  ?  that  what  he  told,  and  what  the  people  proved  them¬ 
selves  so  ready  to  receive,  about  the  Piets,  was  true  or  partly 
true  of  some  anterior  and  perhaps  Lappish  savages,  small  of 
stature,  black  of  hue,  dwelling  underground — possibly  also  the 
distillers  of  some  forgotten  spirit?  See  Mr.  Campbell’s  Tales 
of  the  West  Highlands . 


y 


NEW  POEMS 


NEW  POEMS 


i 

SUMMER  NIGHT 

ABOUT  us  lies  the  summer  night; 

L  The  darkling  earth  is  dusk  below; 
But  high  above,  the  sky  is  bright 
Between  the  eve  and  morning  glow. 

Clear  white  of  dawn,  and  apple  green, 
Sole  lingering  of  the  evening’s  hue, 
Behind  the  clustered  trees  are  seen, 
Across  dark  meadows  drencht  in  dew. 

So  glow  above  the  dusk  of  sin, 

Remembrance  of  Redemption  vast, 
And  future  hope  of  joy  therein 
That  shall  be  shed  on  us  at  last. 

Each  haloed  in  its  husk  of  light. 

Atoms  and  worlds  about  us  lie; 
Though  here  we  grope  a  while  in  night, 
’Tis  always  daylight  up  on  high. 

II 

I  SIT  up  here  at  midnight, 

The  wind  is  in  the  street, 

The  rain  besieges  the  windows 
Like  the  sound  of  many  feet. 

291 


292 


NEW  POEMS 


I  see  the  street  lamps  flicker, 

I  see  them  wink  and  fail; 

The  streets  are  wet  and  empty, 

It  blows  an  easterly  gale. 

Some  think  of  the  fisher  skipper 
Beyond  the  Inchcape  stone; 

But  I  of  the  fisher  woman 
That  lies  at  home  alone. 

She  raises  herself  on  her  elbow 
And  watches  the  firelit  floor; 

Her  eyes  are  bright  with  terror, 

Her  heart  beats  fast  and  sore. 

Between  the  roar  of  the  flurries, 
When  the  tempest  holds  its  breath, 

She  holds  her  breathing  also — 

It  is  all  as  still  as  death. 

She  can  hear  the  cinders  dropping, 
The  cat  that  purrs  in  its  sleep — 

The  foolish  fisher  woman  ! 

Her  heart  is  on  the  deep. 


Ill 


LO  !  in  thine  honest  eyes  I  read 

The  auspicious  beacon  that  shall  lead, 
After  long  sailing  in  deep  seas, 

To  quiet  havens  in  June  ease. 


NEW  POEMS 


293 


Thy  voice  sings  like  an  inland  bird 
First  by  the  seaworn  sailor  heard; 

And  like  road  sheltered  from  life’s  sea 
Thine  honest  heart  is  unto  me. 

IV 

THOUGH  deep  indifference  should  drowse 
The  sluggish  life  beneath  my  brows, 
And  all  the  external  things  I  see 
Grow  snow-showers  in  the  street  to  me, 

Yet  inmost  in  my  stormy  sense 
Thy  looks  shall  be  an  influence. 

Though  other  loves  may  come  and  go 
And  long  years  sever  us  below, 

Shall  the  thin  ice  that  grows  above 
Freeze  the  deep  centre-well  of  love? 

No,  still  below  light  amours,  thou 
Shalt  rule  me  as  thou  rul’st  me  now. 

Year  following  year  shall  only  set 
Fresh  gems  upon  thy  coronet; 

And  Time,  grown  lover,  shall  delight 
To  beautify  thee  in  my  sight; 

And  thou  shalt  ever  rule  in  me 
Crowned  with  the  light  of  memory. 


V 


MY  heart,  when  first  the  blackbird  sings, 
My  heart  drinks  in  the  song: 

Cool  pleasure  fills  my  bosom  through 
And  spreads  each  nerve  along. 


NEW  POEMS 


294 


My  bosom  eddies  quietly, 

My  heart  is  stirred  and  cool 
As  when  a  wind-moved  briar  sweeps 
A  stone  into  a  pool. 

But  unto  thee,  when  thee  I  meet, 

My  pulses  thicken  fast, 

As  when  the  maddened  lake  grows  black 
And  ruffles  in  the  blast. 


VI 

1 

I  DREAMED  of  forest  alleys  fair 
And  fields  of  grey-flowered  grass. 
Where  by  the  yellow  summer  moon 
My  Jenny  seemed  to  pass. 

I  dreamed  the  yellow  summer  moon 
Behind  a  cedar  wood, 

Lay  white  on  fields  of  rippling  grass 
Where  I  and  Jenny  stood. 

I  dreamed — but  fallen  through  my  dream, 
In  a  rainy  land  I  lie 

Where  wan  wet  morning  crowns  the  hills 
Of  grim  reality. 


NEW  POEMS 


295 


2 

I  am  as  one  that  keeps  awake 
All  night  in  the  month  of  June, 
That  lies  awake  in  bed  to  watch 
The  trees  and  great  white  moon. 

For  memories  of  love  are  more 

Than  the  white  moon  there  above, 
And  dearer  than  quiet  moonshine 
Are  the  thoughts  of  her  I  love. 


Last  night,  I  lingered  long  without 
My  last  of  loves  to  see. 

Alas  !  the  moon -white  window-panes 
Stared  blindly  back  on  me. 

To-day  I  hold  her  very  hand. 

Her  very  waist  embrace — 

Like  clouds  across  a  pool,  I  read 
Her  thoughts  upon  her  face. 

And  yet,  as  now,  through  her  clear  eyes 
I  seek  the  inner  shrine — 

I  stoop  to  read  her  virgin  heart 
In  doubt  if  it  be  mine — 

O  looking  long  and  fondly  thus. 

What  vision  should  I  see? 

No  vision,  but  my  own  white  face 
That  grins  and  mimics  me. 


296 


NEW  POEMS 


4 

Once  more  upon  the  same  old  seat 
In  the  same  sunshiny  weather. 

The  elm-trees’  shadows  at  their  feet 
And  foliage  move  together. 

The  shadows  shift  upon  the  grass, 

The  dial  point  creeps  on; 

The  clear  sun  shines,  the  loiterers  pass. 

As  then  they  passed  and  shone. 

But  now  deep  sleep  is  on  my  heart. 

Deep  sleep  and  perfect  rest. 

Hope’s  flutterings  now  disturb  no  more 
The  quiet  of  my  breast. 

VII 

VERSES  WRITTEN  IN  1872 

1 

THOUGH  he  that  ever  kind  and  true, 
Kept  stoutly  step  by  step  with  you 
Your  whole  long  gusty  lifetime  through 
Be  gone  a  while  before, 

Be  now  a  moment  gone  before, 

Yet,  doubt  not,  soon  the  seasons  shall  restore 
Your  friend  to  you. 


NEW  POEMS 


297 


2 

He  has  but  turned  a  corner;  still 
He  pushes  on  with  right  good  will, 

Thro’  mire  and  marsh,  by  heuch  and  hill 
That  self-same  arduous  way, — 

That  self-same  upland  hopeful  way. 

That  you  and  he  through  many  a  doubtful  day 
Attempted  still. 


He  is  not  dead,  this  friend;  not  dead, 

But,  in  the  path  we  mortals  tread, 

Got  some  few,  trifling  steps  ahead, 

And  nearer  to  the  end, 

So  that  you,  too,  once  past  the  bend, 

Shall  meet  again,  as  face  to  face,  this  friend 
You  fancy  dead. 

4 

Push  gayly  on,  strong  heart !  The  while 
You  travel  forward  mile  by  mile, 

He  loiters  with  a  backward  smile 
Till  you  can  overtake, 

And  strains  his  eyes,  to  search  his  wake, 

Or  whistling,  as  he  sees  you  through  the  brake. 
Waits  on  a  stile. 


298 


NEW  POEMS 


VIII 

TO  H.  C.  BUNNER 

YOU  know  the  way  to  Arcady 
Where  I  was  born; 

You  have  been  there,  and  fain 
Would  there  return. 

Some  that  go  thither  bring  with  them 
Red  rose  or  jewelled  diadem 
As  secrets  of  the  secret  king: 

I,  only  what  a  child  would  bring. 

Yet  I  do  think  my  song  is  true; 

For  this  is  how  the  children  do; 

This  is  the  tune  to  which  they  go 
In  sunny  pastures  high  and  low; 

The  treble  pipes  not  otherwise 
Sing  daily  under  sunny  skies 
In  Arcady  the  dear; 

And  you  who  have  been  there  before. 
And  love  that  country  evermore, 

May  not  disdain  to  hear. 


IX 


FROM  WISHING-LAND 


DEAR  Lady,  tapping  at  your  door, 
Some  little  verses  stand, 

And  beg  on  this  auspicious  day 
To  come  and  kiss  your  hand. 


NEW  POEMS 


299 


Their  syllables  all  counted  right 
Their  rhymes  each  in  its  place, 

Like  birthday  children,  at  the  door 
They  wait  to  see  your  face. 

Rise,  lady,  rise  and  let  them  in; 

Fresh  from  the  fairy  shore, 

They  bring  you  things  you  wish  to  have. 
Each  in  its  pinafore. 

For  they  have  been  to  Wishing-land 
This  morning  in  the  dew, 

And  all  your  dearest  wishes  bring — 

All  granted — home  to  you. 

What  these  may  be,  they  would  not  tell. 
And  could  not  if  they  would; 

They  take  the  packets  sealed  to  you 
As  trusty  servants  should. 

But  there  was  one  that  looked  like  love, 
And  one  that  smelt  like  health, 

And  one  that  had  a  jingling  sound — 

I  fancy  it  might  be  wealth. 

Ah,  well,  they  are  but  wishes  still; 

But,  lady  dear,  for  you 

I  know  that  all  you  wish  is  kind, 

I  pray  it  all  come  true. 


300 


NEW  POEMS 


X 

THE  WELL-HEAD 


THE  withered  rushes  made  a  flame 
Across  the  marsh  of  rusty  red; 
The  dreary  plover  ever  came 

And  sang  above  the  old  well-head. 


About  it  crouch  the  junipers, 

Green-black  and  dewed  with  berries  white, 
And  in  the  grass  the  water  stirs, 

Aloud  all  day,  aloud  all  night. 


The  spring  has  scarcely  come,  ’tis  said; 
Yet  sweet  and  pleasant  art  thou  still, 

’Mong  withered  rushes,  old  well-head, 
Upon  the  sallow-shouldered  hill. 

The  grass  from  which  these  waters  came, 
These  waters  swelling  from  the  sod, 

Had  been  a  bible  unto  some, 

A  grave  phylactery  of  God. 

The  Ayrshire  peasant,  years  ago, 

Drank  down  religion  in  a  cool 

Deep  draught  of  waters  such  as  flow 
From  out  this  pebbly  little  pool. 

But  different  far  is  it  with  me, 

Here,  where  the  piping  curlews  call; 

The  creatures  will  not  let  me  see 
The  great  creator  of  them  all. 


NEW  POEMS 


301 


And  I  should  choose  to  go  to  sleep, 

With  Merlin  in  Broceliande, 

To  hear  the  elm  boughs  hiss  and  sweep, 

In  summer  winds  on  either  hand. 

To  cling  to  forest-trees  and  grass 

And  this  dear  world  of  hill  and  plain. 

For  fear,  whatever  came  to  pass, 

God  would  not  give  as  good  again. 

And  some  may  use  the  gospel  so, 

That  is  a  pharos  unto  me, 

And  guide  themselves  to  hell,  although 
Their  chart  should  lead  them  unto  Thee. 

Lord,  shut  our  eyes  or  shut  our  mind, 

Or  give  us  love,  in  case  we  fall; 

’Tis  better  to  go  maim  and  blind 
Than  not  to  reach  the  Lord  at  all. 

XI 

THE  MILL-HOUSE 

(a  sick-bed  fancy) 

AN  alley  ran  across  the  pleasant  wood, 

L  On  either  side  of  whose  broad  opening  stood 
Wide-armed  green  elms  of  many  a  year,  great  bowers 
Of  perfect  greenery  in  summer  hours. 

A  small  red  pathway  slow  meandered  there 
Between  two  clumps  of  grapes,  [both]  lush  and  fair, 


302 


NEW  POEMS 


Well  grown,  that  brushed  a  tall  man  past  the  knee. 
No  summer  day  grew  therein  over-hot, 

For  there  was  a  pleasant  freshness  in  the  spot 
Brought  hither  by  a  stream  that  men  might  see 
Behind  the  rough-barked  bole  of  every  tree — 

A  little  stream  that  ever  murmured  on 
And  here  and  there  in  sudden  sunshine  shone; 

But  for  the  most  part,  swept  by  shadowy  boughs, 
Among  tall  grass  and  fallen  leaves  did  drowse. 

With  ever  and  anon,  a  leap,  a  gleam, 

As  some  cross  boulder  lay  athwart  the  stream. 
Close  following  down  this  alley,  one  came  near 
The  place  where  it  descended  sudden,  sheer, 

Into  a  dell  betwixt  two  wooded  hills. 

Where  ran  a  river  made  of  many  rills. 

Near  where  to  this  the  little  alley  stream 
Lapsed  in  a  turmoil,  stood  as  in  a  dream 
A  lone,  small  mill-house  in  the  vale  aloof 
With  orange  mosses  on  a  grey  slate  roof 
And  all  the  walls  and  every  lintel  stone 
With  water  mosses  cunningly  o’ergrown. 

Its  four-paned  windows  looked  across  a  pool 
By  shadow  of  the  house  and  trees  kept  cool; 

Pent  by  the  mossy  weir  that  served  the  mill, 

Its  little  waters  lay  unmoved  and  still, 

Save  for  a  circular,  slow,  eddy-wheeling 
That  on  its  bubble-spotted  breast  kept  stealing. 
And  now  and  then  the  sudden,  short  wind-sway 
Of  some  elm  branch  or  beechen,  that  all  day 
Trailed  in  the  shadowed  pool;  but  far  below 
The  enfranchised  waters,  in  tumultuous  flow, 
Splashed  round  the  boulders  and  leapt  on  in  foam 


NEW  POEMS 


308 


Adown  the  sunshine  way  that  led  them  home. 

There  was  no  noise  at  all  about  the  mill 
And  the  slope  garden,  like  a  dream,  was  still. 

There  came  no  sign  at  all  into  the  glade, 

Save  when  the  white  sack-laden  waggons  made 
WTheel-creaking  in  the  shadowy,  slanting  road, 

And  the  great  horses  strained  against  the  load; 

Or  when  some  trout  would  splash  in  the  pool  perhaps, 
Or  my  old  pointer  from  his  pendulous  chaps 
Bayed  at  the  very  stillness.  In  the  house 
It  was  so  strangely  quiet  that  the  mouse 
Held  carnival  at  mid-day  on  the  floor. 

The  hearths  were  lined  with  Holland  picture  tiles 
Of  olden  stories  of  enchanters’  wiles; 

And  knights,  stiff -seeming,  upon  stiffer  steeds 
Hastening  to  help  fair  ladies  at  their  needs; 

And  bible  tales,  of  prophets  and  of  kings; 

And  faery  ones,  of  midnight,  meadow  rings 
Whereon,  at  mild  star-rise,  the  wanton  elves 
Dance,  having  cleared  the  grass  blades  for  themselves 
As  we  men  clear  a  forest;  and  besides 
Of  phantom  castles  and  of  woodland  rides, 

Of  convent  cloisters  and  religious  veils 

And  all  such  like,  were  drawn  a  hundred  tales; 

And  therein  was  the  swinging  censer  showed, 

And  therein  altar  candles  feebly  glowed 
And  the  bent  priest  upraised  the  sacred  host. 

And  when  the  dusk  drew  on,  in  times  of  frost, 

And  new  fires  sparkled  on  the  clean -swept  hearth 
And  with  pale  tongues  and  laughing  sound  of  mirth 
Licked  the  dry  wood  and  carven  iron  dogs 
Whereon  was  piled  the  treasure  of  the  logs, 


304 


NEW  POEMS 


In  the  red  glow  that  rose  and  waned  again 
The  picture  figures  writhed  as  if  in  pain, 

Elijah  shook  his  mantle,  and  the  knight 
His  spear,  and  ’rnong  the  elves  of  foot-fall  light 
One  saw  the  dance  grow  faster,  till  the  flame 
Once  more  drew  in,  and'  all  things  were  the  same. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  fleshlier  joys  than  these; 
For  as  the  night  grew  closer  and  the  trees 
Hissed  in  the  wind,  before  the  ruddy  fire 
Was  spread  the  napkin,  white  to  a  desire, 

Laid  out  with  silver  vessels  and  brown  bread 
And  some  hot  pasty  smoking  at  the  head 
With  odorous  vapour,  and  the  jug  afloat 
With  bitter,  amber  ale  that  stings  the  throat, 

Or  figured  glasses  full  of  purple  wine. 

Or  should  one  ask  for  pleasures  more  divine, 

Then  let  him  draw  toward  the  pleasant  blaze 
And  in  the  warm  still  chamber,  let  him  raise 
Blue  wreaths  of  pungent  vapour  from  the  bowl, 
That  glows  and  dusks  like  an  ignited  coal 
At  every  inhalation  of  sweet  smoke. 

So  shall  he  clear  a  stage  for  that  quaint  folk. 

The  brood  of  dreams,  that  faery  puppet  race 
That  will  not  dance  but  upon  a  vacant  space; 
And  purge  from  every  prejudice  or  creed 
His  easy  spirit,  that  with  greater  speed, 

He  may  outrun  the  boundaries  of  art 
And  grapple  with  grim  questionings  of  heart. 


NEW  POEMS 


305 


XII 

ST.  MARTIN’S  SUMMER 

AS  swallows  turning  backward 
*  When  half-way  o’er  the  sea, 
At  one  word’s  trumpet  summons 
They  came  again  to  me — 

The  hopes  I  had  forgotten 
Came  back  again  to  me. 

I  know  not  which  to  credit, 

O  lady  of  my  heart ! 

Your  eyes  that  bade  me  linger, 
Your  words  that  bade  us  part — 
I  know  not  which  to  credit, 

My  reason  or  my  heart. 

But  be  my  hopes  rewarded, 

Or  be  they  but  in  vain, 

I  have  dreamed  a  golden  vision, 

I  have  gathered  in  the  grain — 

I  have  dreamed  a  golden  vision, 

I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 


XIII 

ALL  influences  were  in  vain, 

-  The  sun  dripped  gold  among  the  trees, 
The  fresh  breeze  blew,  the  woody  plain 
Ruffled  and  whispered  in  the  breeze. 


306 


NEW  POEMS 


All  day  the  sea  was  on  one  hand. 

The  long  beach  shone  with  sun  and  wet — 

We  walked  in  trio  on  the  sand. 

My  shadow,  I,  and  my  regret ! 

Eve  came.  I  clambered  to  my  bed. 

Regret  lay  restless  by  my  side, 

The  thought-wheels  galloped  in  my  head 
All  night  into  the  morning  tide. 

The  thought-wheels  span  so  madly  quick, 

So  many  thousand  times  an  hour, 

Thought  after  thought  took  life,  as  thick 
As  bats  in  some  old  belfry  tower. 

My  mind  was  in  emeute!  each  thought 
Usurped  its  individual  right. 

In  vain,  I  temporised — I  sought 
In  vain  to  hold  a  plebiscite ! 

Thoughts  jostled  thoughts — By  hill  and  glade 
They  scattered  far  and  wide  like  sheep, 

I  stretched  my  arms — I  cried — I  prayed — 
They  heard  not — I  began  to  weep. 

My  head  grew  giddy -weak — I  tried 
To  drown  my  reason.  All  in  vain. 

I  lay  upon  my  face  and  cried 
Most  bitterly  to  God  again. 

God  put  a  thought  into  my  hand, 

God  gave  me  a  resolve,  an  aim, 

I  blew  it  trumpet-wise — the  band 
Of  scattered  fancies  heard  and  came. 


NEW  POEMS 


307 


They  heard  the  bugle  tones  I  blew — 

The  wandering  thoughts  came  dropping  in; 

They  took  their  ranks  in  silence  due — 

One  hour,  and  would  the  march  begin  ? 

The  march  began;  and  once  begun 
The  serious  purpose,  true  design 

Has  held  my  being  knit  in  one — 

My  being  kept  the  thoughts  in  line. 

Since  then,  the  waves  are  still.  The  tide 
Sets  steadily  and  strongly  out. 

The  sea  shines  tranquil,  far  and  wide, 

My  mind  is  past  the  surf  of  doubt. 

The  pole-star  of  my  purpose  keeps 
The  constant  line  that  I  should  steer. 

At  night  my  weary  body  sleeps, 

My  brain  works  orderly  and  clear. 

All  things  are  altered  since  I  set 
The  steady  goal  before  my  face; 

All  things  are  changed;  and  my  regret 
Is  advertising  for  a  place ! 

“  Companion  for  an  invalide — 

The  Rene- sort  preferred — genteel 

And  orthodox I  wish  it  speed — 

The  creature  kept  so  well  to  heel ! 


308 


NEW  POEMS 


XIV 

THE  old  world  moans  and  topes, 
Is  restless  and  ill  at  ease; 

And  the  old-world  politicians 
Prescribe  for  the  new  disease. 

I  have  stooped  my  head  to  listen 
(Its  voice  is  far  from  strong) 

For  the  burthen  of  its  moanings 
As  it  topes  all  night  long. 

I  have  watched  a  patient  vigil 
Beside  its  fever  bed. 

And  I  think  that  I  can  tell  you 
The  burthen  of  what  it  said: — 

“As  sick  folk  long  for  morning 
And  long  for  night  again. 

So  long  for  noble  objects 
The  hearts  of  noble  men. 

“They  long  and  grope  about  them, 
With  feverish  hands  they  grope 
For  objects  of  endeavour, 

And  exercise  for  hope. 

“And  they  shall  be  our  heroes 
And  be  our  Avatar, 

Who  shall  either  reach  the  objects 
Or  tell  us  what  they  are !” 


NEW  POEMS 
XV 


309 


I  AM  like  one  that  has  sat  alone 
All  day  on  a  level  plain, 

With  drooping  head  and  trailing  arms 
In  a  ceaseless  pour  of  rain — 

With  drooping  head  and  nerveless  arms 
On  the  moorland  flat  and  grey, 

Till  the  clouds  were  severed  suddenly 
About  the  end  of  day; 

And  the  purple  fringes  of  the  rain 
Hose  o’er  the  scarlet  west, 

And  the  birds  sang  in  the  soddened  furze. 
And  my  heart  sang  in  my  breast. 


XVI 


THE  whole  day  thro’,  in  contempt  and  pity, 
I  pass  your  houses  and  beat  my  drum, 

In  the  roar  of  people  that  go  and  come. 

In  the  sunlit  streets  of  the  city. 


Hark !  do  you  hear  the  ictus  coming, 

Mid  the  roar  and  clatter  of  feet? 

Hark !  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  street 
Do  you  hear  the  sound  of  my  drumming? 

Sun  and  the  fluttering  ribbons  blind  me; 

But  still  I  beat  as  I  travel  the  town, 

And  still  the  recruits  come  manfully  down, 
And  the  march  grows  long  behind  me. 


310 


NEW  POEMS 


In  time  to  the  drum  the  feet  fall  steady, 

The  feet  fall  steady  and  firm  to  hear. 

And  we  cry,  as  we  march,  that  the  goal  is  near, 
For  all  men  are  heroes  already ! 


XVII 

THE  old  Chimaeras,  old  receipts 
For  making  “happy  land,” 

The  old  political  beliefs 

Swam  close  before  my  hand. 

The  grand  old  communistic  myths 
In  a  middle  state  of  grace, 

Quite  dead,  but  not  yet  gone  to  Hell, 

And  walking  for  a  space, 

Quite  dead,  and  looking  it,  and  yet 
All  eagerness  to  show 
The  Social-Contract  forgeries 
By  Chatterton — Rousseau — 

A  hundred  such  as  these  I  tried, 

And  hundreds  after  that, 

I  fitted  Social  Theories 
As  one  would  fit  a  hat ! 

Full  many  a  marsh-fire  lured  me  on, 

I  reached  at  many  a  star, 

I  reached  and  grasped  them  and  behold — 
The  stump  of  a  cigar ! 


NEW  POEMS 


311 


All  through  the  sultry,  sweltering  day 
The  sweat  ran  down  my  brow, 

The  still  plains  heard  my  distant  strokes 
That  have  been  silenced  now. 

This  way  and  that,  now  up,  now  down, 

I  hailed  full  many  a  blow. 

Alas !  beneath  my  weary  arm 
The  thicket  seemed  to  grow. 

I  take  the  lesson,  wipe  my  brow 
And  throw  my  axe  aside. 

And,  sorely  wearied,  I  go  home 
In  the  tranquil  eventide. 

And  soon  the  rising  moon,  that  lights 
The  eve  of  my  defeat, 

Shall  see  me  sitting  as  of  yore 
By  my  old  master’s  feet. 


XVIII 

DEDICATION 


MY  first  gift  and  my  last,  to  you 

I  dedicate  this  fascicle  of  songs — 
The  only  wealth  I  have: 

Just  as  they  are,  to  you. 


I  speak  the  truth  in  soberness,  and  say 
I  had  rather  bring  a  light  to  your  clear  eyes. 
Had  rather  hear  you  praise 
This  bosomful  of  songs 


312 


NEW  POEMS 


Than  that  the  whole,  hard  world  with  one  consent, 
In  one  continuous  chorus  of  applause 
Poured  forth  for  me  and  mine 
The  homage  of  ripe  praise. 

I  write  the  finis  here  against  my  love, 

This  is  my  love’s  last  epitaph  and  tomb. 

Here  the  road  forks,  and  I 
Go  my  way,  far  from  yours. 


XIX 

PRELUDE 

BY  sunny  market-place  and  street 
Wherever  I  go  my  drum  I  beat, 

And  wherever  I  go  in  my  coat  of  red 
The  ribbons  flutter  about  my  head. 

I  seek  recruits  for  wars  to  come — 

For  slaughterless  wars  I  beat  the  drum, 

And  the  shilling  I  give  to  each  new  ally 
Is  hope  to  live  and  courage  to  die. 

I  know  that  new  recruits  shall  come 
Wherever  I  beat  the  sounding  drum. 

Till  the  roar  of  the  march  by  country  and  town 
Shall  shake  the  tottering  Dagons  down. 

For  I  was  objectless  as  they 
And  loitering  idly  day  by  day; 

But  whenever  I  heard  the  recruiters  come, 

I  left  my  all  to  follow  the  drum. 


NEW  POEMS 


313 


XX 

THE  VANQUISHED  KNIGHT 

1HAVE  left  all  upon  the  shameful  field, 

Honour  and  Hope,  my  God,  and  all  but  life; 
Spurless,  with  sword  reversed  and  dinted  shield, 
Degraded  and  disgraced,  I  leave  the  strife. 

From  him  that  hath  not,  shall  there  not  be  taken 
E’en  that  he  hath,  when  he  deserts  the  strife? 
Life  left  by  all  life’s  benefits  forsaken, 

O  keep  the  promise,  Lord,  and  take  the  life. 


XXI 

AULD  REEKIE 

WHEN  chitterin’  cauld  the  day  sail  daw, 
Loud  may  your  bonny  bugles  blaw 
And  loud  your  drums  may  beat. 

Hie  owre  the  land  at  evenfa’ 

Your  lamps  may  glitter  raw  by  raw, 

Along  the  gowsty  street. 

I  gang  nae  mair  where  ance  I  gaed, 

By  Brunston,  Fairmileheid,  or  Braid; 

But  far  frae  Kirk  and  Tron. 

O  still  ayont  the  muckle  sea, 

Still  are  ye  dear,  and  dear  to  me, 

Auld  Reekie,  still  and  on ! 


314 


NEW  POEMS 


XXII 


ATHOLE  BROSE 
ILLIE  an"  I  cam  doun  by  Blair 


And  in  by  Tullibardine, 


The  Rye  were  at  the  waterside, 

An’  bee-skeps  in  the  garden. 

I  saw  the  reek  of  a  private  still — 
Says  I,  “Gud  Lord,  I  thank  ye !” 

As  Willie  and  I  cam  in  by  Blair 
And  out  by  Killiekrankie. 

Ye  hinny  bees,  ye  smuggler  lads, 
Thou,  Muse,  the  bard’s  protector, 

I  never  kent  what  Rye  was  for 
Till  I  had  drunk  the  nectar ! 

And  shall  I  never  drink  it  mair? 

Gud  troth,  I  beg  your  pardon ! 

The  neiest  time  I  come  doun  by  Blair 
And  in  by  Tullibardine. 


XXIII 


OVER  THE  WATER  WI’  CHAIRLIE 
(in  memory  of  a  trip  to  malie,  may  27th,  1892) 


COME  boat  me  o’er,  come  row  me  o’er ! 

But  fate  constrained  us  sairly 
And  gied  us  our  paiks  and  a  hantle  mair 
That  ever  we  lippened  to  Chairlie. 


NEW  POEMS 


315 


For  nae thing  o’  this  would  hae  happened  to  hiz 
If  we  had  but  stairted  airly. 

O  we  had  won  there  and  back  again  fair, 

If  it  hadnae  been  for  Chairlie. 

My  Minnie  sat  cocked  on  a  coggly  canoe 
And,  wow !  but  she  lookit  a  ferlie ! 

Her  fit  asleep  and  the  sea  in  her  shoe, 

And  a’  on  account  o’  Chairlie. 

O  sair  is  my  sorrow  wi’  seas  and  rocks ! 

And  the  rain,  says  she,  and  Chairlie, 

To  sit  cogglin’  here  on  a  biscuit  box, 

My  lee  alane  wi’  Chairlie ! 

While  Bell  and  mysel’  and  the  strong  chief  wife, 

As  stark  as  any  kerlie, 

We  waded  and  paidled  stachered  for  life, 

And  banned  the  face  o’  Chairlie ! 

I  kilted  my  breeks  and  they  their  coats 
O !  glam  to  the  knee,  and  merrily, 

And  we  were  a’  in  our  Sinday’s  best, 

Black  be  the  fa’  o’  Chairlie. 

That  we  should  be  forced  to  kilt  our  duds. 

And  show  our  shanks  sae  barely, 

And  stacher  in  a’  kinds  o’  muds, 

And  a’  on  account  o’  Chairlie. 

Oursel’  we  came  there  at  the  hinder  end, 

And  the  dances  were  over  fairly; 

O  sure  as  death  if  we  had  but  kenned, 

We  would  never  have  lippened  to  Chairlie ! 


316 


NEW  POEMS 


But  we  had  still  to  get  home  again, 

And  the  rain  it  rained  full  sairly, 

1  gie  you  my  word  as  man  to  man, 

I  think  we  were  used  unfairly ! 

The  rain  it  rained  like  never  was, 

The  wind  it  blew  contrairly; 

But  what  constrained  us  mair  than  a’ 

Was  the  pizon  smiles  o'  Chairlie. 

He  dipped  his  oar  blade  into  the  sea, 

He  ladled  it  but  sparsely, 

The  gait  the  gude  wife  steers  her  tea 
Was  the  gait  to  row  for  Chairlie. 

We  threesome  sat  like  dreepin'  hens, 

And  wow !  we  chittered  sairly, 

We  dreeped  and  ran  and  clustered  close. 

And  fly  tit  sair  on  Chairlie. 

O  where  is  the  rudder  and  where  are  the  oars, 
And  where  is  the  boat  plug,  Chairlie  ? 

The  sea  it  swells  above  our  houghs, 

The  boat  is  sinking  fairly ! 

O,  if  we  put  win  hame  again, 

And  we  expect  it  barely, 

The  toot  of  judgment  sure  shall  sound, 

Or  we  lippen  again  to  Chairlie ! 


NEW  POEMS 


317 


XXIV 

TO  THE  COMMISSIONERS  OF 
NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

I  SEND  to  you,  commissioners, 

A  paper  that  may  please  ye,  sirs, 
(For  troth  they  say  it  might  be  worse 
An’  I  believe’t) 

And  on  your  business  lay  my  curse 
Before  I  leav’t. 

I  thocht  I’d  serve  wi’  you,  sirs,  yince. 
But  I’ve  thocht  better  of  it  since, 

The  maitter  I  will  nowise  mince. 

But  tell  ye  true: 

I’ll  service  wi’  some  ither  prince, 

An’  no’  wi’  you. 

I’ve  no’  been  very  deep,  ye’ll  think, 
Cam’  delicately  to  the  brink 
An’  when  the  water  gart  me  shrink 
Straucht  took  the  rue, 

An’  didna  stoop  my  fill  to  drink — 

I  own  it  true. 

I  kennt  on  cape  and  isle,  a  light 
Burnt  fair  an’  clearly  ilka  night; 

But  at  the  service  I  took  fright, 

As  sune’s  I  saw, 

An’  being  still  a  neophite 
Gaed  straucht  awa’. 


318 


NEW  POEMS 


Anither  course  I  now  begin, 

The  weeg  I’ll  cairry  for  my  sin, 

The  court  my  voice  shall  echo  in, 

An’ — wha  can  tell? — 

Some  ither  day  I  may  be  yin 
O’  you  mysel’. 

XXV 

AFTER  READING  “ANTONY 
AND  CLEOPATRA  ” 

AS  when  the  hunt  by  holt  and  field 
■  Drives  on  with  horn  and  strife, 
Hunger  of  hopeless  things  pursues 
Our  spirits  throughout  life. 

The  sea’s  roar  fills  us  aching  full 
Of  objectless  desire — 

The  sea’s  roar,  and  the  white  moon-shine, 
And  the  reddening  of  the  fire. 

Who  talks  to  me  of  reason  now? 

It  would  be  more  delight 
To  have  died  in  Cleopatra’s  arms 
Than  be  alive  to-night. 


XXVI 


THE  relic  taken,  what  avails  the  shrine? 

The  locket,  pictureless?  O  heart  of  mine. 
Art  thou  not  worse  than  that, 

Still  warm,  a  vacant  nest  where  love  once  sat? 


NEW  POEMS 


310 


Her  image  nestled  closer  at  my  heart 
Than  cherished  memories,  healed  every  smart 
And  warmed  it  more  than  wine 
Or  the  full  summer  sun  in  noon-day  shine. 

This  was  the  little  weather  gleam  that  lit 

The  cloudy  promontories — the  real  charm  was  it 

That  gilded  hills  and  woods 

And  walked  beside  me  thro’  the  solitudes. 

That  sun  is  set.  My  heart  is  widowed  now 
Of  that  companion-thought.  Alone  I  plough 
The  seas  of  life,  and  trace 
A  separate  furrow  far  from  her  and  grace. 


XXVII 


ABOUT  the  sheltered  garden  ground 
-  The  trees  stand  strangely  still. 
The  vale  ne’er  seemed  so  deep  before, 
Nor  yet  so  high  the  hill. 


An  awful  sense  of  quietness, 

A  fulness  of  repose. 

Breathes  from  the  dewy  garden-lawns. 
The  silent  garden  rows. 

As  the  hoof -beats  of  a  troop  of  horse 
Heard  far  across  a  plain, 

A  nearer  knowledge  of  great  thoughts 
Thrills  vaguely  through  my  brain. 


320 


NEW  POEMS 


I  lean  my  head  upon  my  arm, 

My  heart’s  too  full  to  think; 

Like  the  roar  of  seas,  upon  my  heart 
Doth  the  morning  stillness  sink. 


XXVIII 

I  KNOW  not  how,  but  as  I  count 
The  beads  of  former  years, 

Old  laughter  catches  in  my  throat 
With  the  very  feel  of  tears. 


T 


XXIX 

AKE  not  my  hand  as  mine  alone — 
You  do  not  trust  to  me — 


I  hold  the  hand  of  greater  men 
Too  far  before  to  see. 


Follow  not  me,  who  only  trace 
Stoop-head  the  prints  of  those 
Our  mighty  predecessors,  whom 
The  darknesses  enclose. 

I  cannot  lead  who  follow — I 
Who  learn,  am  dumb  to  teach; 
I  can  but  indicate  the  goals 
That  greater  men  shall  reach. 


C 


NEW  POEMS 


321 


XXX 


THE  angler  rose,  he  took  his  rod, 

He  kneeled  and  made  his  prayers  to  God. 
The  living  God  sat  overhead: 

The  angler  tripped,  the  eels  were  fed. 


XXXI 

SPRING  SONG 


The  air  was  full  of  sun  and  birds, 
The  fresh  air  sparkled  clearly. 
Remembrance  wakened  in  my  heart 
And  I  knew  I  loved  her  dearly. 


The  fallows  and  the  leafless  trees 
And  all  my  spirit  tingled. 

My  earliest  thought  of  love,  and  Spring’s 
First  puff  of  perfume  mingled. 


In  my  still  heart  the  thoughts  awoke, 
Came  lone  by  lone  together — 

Say,  birds  and  Sun  and  Spring,  is  Love 
A  mere  affair  of  weather? 


XXXII 

(a  fragment) 

THOU  strainest  through  the  mountain  fern, 
A  most  exiguously  thin 
Burn. 

For  all  thy  foam,  for  all  thy  din, 


322 


NEW  POEMS 


Thee  shall  the  pallid  lake  inurn. 
With  well-a-day  for  Mr.  Swin- 
Burne ! 

Take  then  this  quarto  in  thy  fin 
And,  0  thou  stoker  huge  and  stern. 
The  whole  affair,  outside  and  in, 
Burn ! 

But  save  the  true  poetic  kin. 

The  works  of  Mr.  Robert  Burn’ 

And  William  Wordsworth  upon  Tin- 
Tern  ! 


XXXIII 


THE  summer  sun  shone  round  me. 
The  folded  valley  lay 
In  a  stream  of  sun  and  odour. 

That  sultry  summer  day. 


The  tall  trees  stood  in  the  sunlight 
As  still  as  still  could  be, 

But  the  deep  grass  sighed  and  rustled 
And  bowed  and  beckoned  me. 


The  deep  grass  moved  and  whispered 
And  lowed  and  brushed  my  face. 

It  whispered  in  the  sunshine: 

“The  winter  comes  apace.” 


NEW  POEMS 


323 


XXXIV 

YOU  looked  so  tempting  in  the  pew. 
You  looked  so  sly  and  calm — 
My  trembling  fingers  played  with  yours 
As  both  looked  out  the  Psalm. 

Your  heart  beat  hard  against  my  arm, 
My  foot  to  yours  was  set. 

Your  loosened  ringlet  burned  my  cheek 
Whenever  they  two  met. 

O  little,  little  we  hearkened,  dear. 

And  little,  little  cared, 

Although  the  parson  sermonised, 

The  congregation  stared. 


XXXV 

LOVE’S  VICISSITUDES 

AS  Love  and  Hope  together 
•  Walk  by  me  for  a  while, 
Link-armed  the  ways  they  travel 
For  many  a  pleasant  mile — 
Link-armed  and  dumb  they  travel. 
They  sing  not,  but  they  smile. 

Hope  leaving.  Love  commences 
To  practise  on  the  lute; 

And  as  he  sings  and  travels 


324 


NEW  POEMS 


With  lingering,  laggard  foot, 
Despair  plays  obbligato 
The  sentimental  flute. 

Until  in  singing  garments, 

Comes  royally,  at  call — 

Comes  limber-hipped  Indiff’rence 
Free  stepping,  straight  and  tall — 
Comes  singing  and  lamenting, 

The  sweetest  pipe  of  all. 


XXXVI 

THE  moon  is  sinking — the  tempestuous  weather 

Grows  worse,  the  squalls  disputing  our  advance; 
And  as  the  feet  fall  well  and  true  together 

In  the  last  moonlight,  see !  the  standards  glance ! 


One  hour,  one  moment,  and  that  light  for  ever. 
Quite  so. 

Jes’  so. 

XXXVII 

DEATH 


WE  are  as  maidens  one  and  all, 

In  some  shut  convent  place, 
Pleased  with  the  flowers,  the  service  bells. 
The  cloister’s  shady  grace, 


That  whiles,  with  fearful,  fluttering  hearts, 
Look  outward  thro’  the  grate 
And  down  the  long  white  road,  up  which, 
Some  morning,  soon  or  late, 


NEW  POEMS 


325 


Shall  canter  on  his  great  grey  horse 
That  splendid  acred  Lord 

Who  comes  to  lead  us  forth — his  wife. 
But  half  with  our  accord. 

With  fearful,  fluttered  hearts  we  wait — 
We  meet  him,  bathed  in  tears; 

We  are  so  loath  to  leave  behind 
Those  tranquil  convent  years; 

So  loath  to  meet  the  pang,  to  take 
(On  some  poor  chance  of  bliss) 

Life’s  labour  on  the  wdndy  sea 
For  a  bower  as  still  as  this. 

Weeping,  we  mount  the  crowded  aisle. 
And  weeping  after  us 

The  bridesmaids  follow — Come  to  me ! 

I  will  not  meet  you  thus, 

Pale  rider  to  the  convent  gate. 

Come,  O  rough  bridegroom.  Death, 

Where,  bashful  bride,  I  wait  you,  veiled, 
Flush-faced,  with  shaken  breath; 

I  do  not  fear  your  kiss.  I  dream 
New  days,  secure  from  strife. 

And,  bride-like,  in  the  future  hope — 

A  quiet  household  life. 


NEW  POEMS 


326 


XXXVIII 

DUDDINGSTONE 


WITH  caws  and  chirrupings,  the  woods 
In  this  thin  sun  rejoice. 

The  Psalm  seems  but  the  little  kirk 
That  sings  with  its  own  voice. 


The  cloud-rifts  share  their  amber  light 
With  the  surface  of  the  mere — 

I  think  the  very  stones  are  glad 
To  feel  each  other  near. 


Once  more  my  whole  heart  leaps  and  swells 
And  gushes  o’er  with  glee; 

The  fingers  of  the  sun  and  shade 
Touch  music  stops  in  me. 

Now  fancy  paints  that  bygone  day 
When  you  were  here,  my  fair — 

The  whole  lake  rang  with  rapid  skates 
In  the  windless  winter  air. 

You  leaned  to  me,  I  leaned  to  you, 

Our  course  was  smooth  as  flight — 

We  steered — a  heel-touch  to  the  left, 

A  heel-touch  to  the  right. 

We  swung  our  way  through  flying  men, 
Your  hand  lay  fast  in  mine: 

We  saw  the  shifting  crowd  dispart, 

The  level  ice-reach  shine. 


NEW  POEMS 


327 


I  swear  by  yon  swan-travelled  lake, 

By  yon  calm  hill  above, 

I  swear  had  we  been  drowned  that  day 
We  had  been  drowned  in  love. 

XXXIX 

STOUT  marches  lead  to  certain  ends, 
We  seek  no  Holy  Grail,  my  friends — 
That  dawn  should  find  us  every  day 
Some  fraction  farther  on  our  way. 

The  dumb  lands  sleep  from  east  to  west, 
They  stretch  and  turn  and  take  their  rest. 
The  cock  has  crown  in  the  steading-yard, 
But  priest  and  people  slumber  hard. 

We  two  are  early  forth,  and  hear 
The  nations  snoring  far  and  near. 

So  peacefully  their  rest  they  take, 

It  seems  we  are  the  first  awake ! 

— Strong  heart !  this  is  no  royal  way, 

A  thousand  cross-roads  seek  the  day; 

And,  hid  from  us,  to  left  and  right, 

A  thousand  seekers  seek  the  light. 

XL 

AWAY  with  funeral  music — set 
a*  The  pipe  to  powerful  lips — 

The  cup  of  life’s  for  him  that  drinks 
And  not  for  him  that  sips. 


328 


NEW  POEMS 


XLI 

TO  SYDNEY1 


NOT  thine  where  marble-still  and  white 
Old  statues  share  the  tempered  light 
And  mock  the  uneven  modern  flight, 

But  in  the  stream 
Of  daily  sorrow  and  delight 
To  seek  a  theme. 


I  too,  O  friend,  have  steeled  my  heart 
Boldly  to  choose  the  better  part. 

To  leave  the  beaten  ways  of  art, 

And  wholly  free 

To  dare,  beyond  the  scanty  chart, 

The  deeper  sea. 

All  vain  restrictions  left  behind, 

Frail  bark !  I  loose  my  anchored  mind 
And  large,  before  the  prosperous  wind 
Desert  the  strand — 

A  new  Columbus  sworn  to  find 
The  morning  land. 

Nor  too  ambitious,  friend.  To  thee 
I  own  my  weakness.  Not  for  me 
To  sing  the  enfranchised  nations’  glee, 
Or  count  the  cost 
Of  warships  foundered  far  at  sea 
And  battles  lost. 


1  Stevenson’s  cousin,  Robert  Alan  Stevenson. 


NEW  POEMS 


329 


High  on  the  far-seen,  sunny  hills, 

Morning-content  my  bosom  fills; 

Well-pleased,  I  trace  the  wandering  rills 
And  learn  their  birth. 

Far  off,  the  clash  of  sovereign  wills 
May  shake  the  earth. 

The  nimble  circuit  of  the  wheel, 

The  uncertain  poise  of  merchant  weal, 

Heaven  of  famine,  fire  and  steel 
When  nations  fall; 

These,  heedful,  from  afar  I  feel — 

I  mark  them  all. 

But  not,  my  friend,  not  these  I  sing. 

My  voice  shall  fill  a  narrower  ring. 

Tired  souls,  that  flag  upon  the  wing, 

I  seek  to  cheer: 

Brave  wines  to  strengthen  hope  I  bring, 
Life’s  cantineer ! 

Some  song  that  shall  be  suppling  oil 

To  weary  muscles  strained  with  toil. 

Shall  hearten  for  the  daily  moil, 

Or  widely  read 

Make  sweet  for  him  that  tills  the  soil 
His  daily  bread — 


330 


NEW  POEMS 


Such  songs  in  my  flushed  hours  I  dream 
(High  thought)  instead  of  armour  gleam 
Or  warrior  cantos  ream  by  ream 
To  load  the  shelves — 

Songs  with  a  lilt  of  words,  that  seem 
To  sing  themselves. 


XLII 

HAD  I  the  power  that  have  the  will, 

The  enfeebled  will — a  modern  curse- 
The  book  of  mine  should  blossom  still 
A  perfect  garden-ground  of  verse. 


White  placid  marble  gods  should  keep 
Good  watch  in  every  shadowy  lawn; 

And  from  clean,  easy-breathing  sleep 
The  birds  should  waken  me  at  dawn. 

— A  fairy  garden;  none  the  less 

Throughout  these  gracious  paths  of  mine 

All  day  there  should  be  free  access 

For  stricken  hearts  and  lives  that  pine; 

And  by  the  folded  lawns  all  day — 

No  idle  gods  for  such  a  land — 

All  active  Love  should  take  its  way 
With  active  Labour  hand  in  hand. 


NEW  POEMS 


381 


XLIII 


ODULL  cold  northern  sky, 

O  brawling  sabbath  bells, 

0  feebly  twittering  Autumn  bird  that  tells 
The  year  is  like  to  die ! 


O  still,  spoiled  trees,  O  city  ways, 

O  sun  desired  in  vain, 

O  dread  presentiment  of  coming  rain 
That  cloys  the  sullen  days  ! 

Thee,  heart  of  mine,  I  greet. 

In  what  hard  mountain  pass 
Striv’st  thou?  In  what  importunate  morass 
Sink  now  thy  weary  feet? 

Thou  run’st  a  hopeless  race 
To  win  despair.  No  crown 
Awaits  success;  but  leaden  gods  look  down 
On  thee,  with  evil  face. 

And  those  that  would  befriend 
And  cherish  thy  defeat, 

With  angry  welcome  shall  turn  sour  the  sweet 
Home-coming  of  the  end. 


Yea,  those  that  offer  praise 
To  idleness,  shall  yet 
Insult  thee,  coming  glorious  in  the  sweat 
Of  honourable  ways. 


332 


NEW  POEMS 


XLIV 

APOLOGETIC  POSTSCRIPT  OF 
A  YEAR  LATER 

IF  you  see  this  song,  my  dear, 

And  last  year’s  toast, 

I’m  confoundedly  in  fear 
You’ll  be  serious  and  severe 
About  the  boast. 

Blame  not  that  I  sought  such  aid 
To  cure  regret. 

I  was  then  so  lowly  laid 
I  used  all  the  Gasconnade 
That  I  could  get. 

Being  snubbed  is  somewhat  smart, 
Believe,  my  sweet; 

And  I  needed  all  my  art 
To  restore  my  broken  heart 
To  its  conceit. 

Come  and  smile,  dear,  and  forget 
I  boasted  so, 

I  apologise — regret — 

It  was  all  a  jest; — and — yet 
I  do  not  know. 


NEW  POEMS 


333 


XLV 

TO  MARCUS1 

YOU  have  been  far,  and  I 
Been  farther  yet, 

Since  last,  in  foul  or  fair 
An  impecunious  pair, 

Below  this  northern  sky 
Of  ours,  we  met. 

Now  winter  nights  shall  see 
Again,  us  two 

While  howls  the  tempest  higher 
Sit  warmly  by  the  fire 
And  dream  and  plan,  as  we 
Were  wont  to  do. 

And,  hand  in  hand,  at  large 
Our  thoughts  shall  walk 
While  storm  and  gusty  rain 
Again  and  yet  again, 

Shall  drive  their  noisy  charge 
Across  the  talk. 

The  pleasant  future  still 
Shall  smile  to  me 
And  hope  with  wooing  hands 
Wave  on  to  fairy  lands 
All  over  dale  and  hill 
And  earth  and  sea. 


1  Charles  Baxter. 


334 


NEW  POEMS 


And  you  who  doubt  the  sky 
And  fear  the  sun — 

You — Christian  with  the  pack — 
You  shall  not  wander  back 
For  I  am  Hopeful — I 
Will  cheer  you  on. 

Come — where  the  great  have  trod. 
The  great  shall  lead — 

Come,  elbow  through  the  press. 
Pluck  Fortune  by  the  dress — 

By  God,  we  must — by  God, 

We  shall  succeed. 

XLYI 

TO  OTTILIE 

YOU  remember,  I  suppose. 

How  the  August  sun  arose. 
And  how  his  face 
Woke  to  trill  and  carolette 
All  the  cages  that  were  set 
About  the  place. 

In  the  tender  morning  light 
All  around  lay  strange  and  bright 
And  still  and  sweet, 

And  the  grey  doves  unafraid 
Went  their  morning  promenade 
Along  the  street. 


NEW  POEMS 


335 


XLVII 


THIS  gloomy  northern  day. 

Or  this  yet  gloomier  night. 
Has  moved  a  something  high 
In  my  cold  heart;  and  I, 
That  do  not  often  pray, 

Would  pray  to-night. 


And  first  on  thee  I  call 

For  bread,  O  God  of  might ! 
Enough  of  bread  for  all, — - 

That  through  the  famished  town 
Cold  hunger  may  lie  down 
With  none  to-night. 


I  pray  for  hope  no  less 

Strong-sinewed  hope,  O  Lord, 

That  to  the  struggling  young 
May  preach  with  brazen  tongue 
Stout  Labour,  high  success, 

And  bright  reward. 

And  last,  O  Lord,  I  pray 
For  hearts  resigned  and  bold 
To  trudge  the  dusty  way — 

Hearts  stored  with  song  and  joke 
And  warmer  than  a  cloak 
Against  the  cold. 


336 


NEW  POEMS 


If  nothing  else  he  had, 

He  who  has  this,  has  all. 

This  comforts  under  pain; 

This,  through  the  stinging  rain. 

Keeps  ragamuffin  glad 
Behind  the  wall. 

This  makes  the  sanded  inn 
A  palace  for  a  Prince, 

And  this,  when  griefs  begin 
And  cruel  fate  annoys, 

Can  bring  to  mind  the  joys 
Of  ages  since. 

XLVIII 

TO  A  YOUTH1 

SEE,  with  strong  heart,  O  youth,  the  change 
Of  mood  and  season  in  thy  breast. 

The  intrepid  soul  that  dares  the  wider  range 
Shall  find  securer  rest. 

The  variable  moods  they  breed 
Are  but  as  April  sun  and  shower, 

That  only  seem  to  hinder — truly  speed 
Against  the  harvest  hour. 

1  Doubtless  Stevenson’s  cousin,  “Bob,”  Robert  Alan  Stevenson. 


NEW  POEMS 


337 


Thy  net  in  all  rough  waters  cast, 

In  all  fair  pasturelands  rejoice. 

Thee  shall  such  wealth  of  trials  lead  at  last 
To  thy  true  home  of  choice. 

So  shalt  thou  grow,  O  youth,  at  length 
Strong  in  endeavour,  strong  to  bear 
As  having  all  things  borne,  thy  lease  of  strength 
Not  perishable  hair. 

Not  the  frail  tenement  of  health, 

The  uneasy  mail  of  stoic  pride 
(A  Nessus-shirt  indeed !)  the  veer  of  wealth 
In  strong  continual  tide. 

Not  these,  but  in  the  constant  heart, 

That  having  all  ways  tried,  at  last 

Holds,  stout  and  patient,  to  the  eternal  chart, 

Well  tested  in  the  past. 

O,  more  than  garlands  for  our  heads, 

Than  drum  and  trumpet  sounding  loud, 

As  the  long  line  of  fluttering  banners  threads 
The  many-coloured  crowd; 

That  sense  of  progress  won  with  ease, 

Of  unconstrained  advance  in  both, 

Of  the  full  circle  finished — such  as  trees 
Feel  in  their  own  free  growth. 


338 


NEW  POEMS 


So  shall  thy  life  to  plains  below, 

O  not  unworthy  of  the  crown ! 

Equal  and  pure,  by  lives  yet  purer,  flow 
Companionably  down. 


XLIX 

JOHN  CAVALIER 

THESE  are  your  hills,  John  Cavalier. 

Your  father’s  kids  you  tended  here. 
And  grew,  among  these  mountains  wild, 

A  humble  and  religious  child. — 

Fate  turned  the  wheel;  you  grew  and  grew; 
Bold  Marshals  doffed  the  hat  to  you; 

God  whispered  counsels  in  your  ear 
To  guide  your  sallies,  Cavalier. 

You  shook  the  earth  with  martial  tread; 
The  ensigns  fluttered  by  your  head; 

In  Spain  or  France,  Velay  or  Kent, 

The  music  sounded  as  you  went. — 

Much  would  I  give  if  I  might  spy 
Your  brave  battalions  marching  by; 

Or,  on  the  wind,  if  I  might  hear 
Your  drums  and  bugles,  Cavalier. 

In  vain.  O’er  all  the  windy  hill. 

The  ways  are  void,  the  air  is  still, 

Alone,  below  the  echoing  rock, 

The  shepherd  calls  upon  his  flock. — 


NEW  POEMS 


339 


The  wars  of  Spain  and  of  Cevennes, 

The  bugles  and  the  marching  men. 

The  horse  you  rode  for  many  a  year — 
Where  are  they  now,  John  Cavalier? 

) 

All  armies  march  the  selfsame  way 
Far  from  the  cheerful  eye  of  day; 

And  you  and  yours  marched  down  below 
About  two  hundred  years  ago. 

Over  the  hills,  into  the  shade. 

Journeys  each  mortal  cavalcade; 

Out  of  the  sound,  out  of  the  sun. 

They  go  when  their  day’s  work  is  done; 
And  all  shall  doff  the  bandoleer 
To  sleep  with  dead  John  Cavalier. 


L 

PRAISE  AND  PRAYER 

I  HAVE  been  well,  I  have  been  ill, 
I  have  been  rich  and  poor; 

I  have  set  my  back  against  the  wall 
And  fought  it  by  the  hour; 

I  have  been  false,  I  have  been  true; 

And  thro’  grief  and  mirth, 

I  have  done  all  that  man  can  do 
To  be  a  man  of  worth; 


340 


NEW  POEMS 


And  now,  when  from  an  unknown  shore, 
I  dare  an  unknown  wave, 

God,  who  has  helped  me  heretofore, 

O  help  me  wi’  the  lave ! 


LI 

HOPES 

THO’  day  by  day  old  hopes  depart, 

Yet  other  hopes  arise 
If  still  we  bear  a  hopeful  heart 
And  forward-looking  eyes. 

Of  all  that  entered  hand  in  hand 
With  me  the  dusty  plains — 

Look  round  ! — not  one  remains, 

Not  one  remains  of  all  the  jovial  band. 

Some  fell  behind,  some  hastened  on; 

Some,  scattered  far  and  wide, 

Sought  lands  on  every  side; 

One  way  or  other,  all  the  band  are  gone. 

Yes,  all  are  gone;  and  yet,  at  night, 

New  objects  of  desire 
People  the  sunken  fire 

And  new  hopes  whisper  sweetly  new  delight; 

And  still,  flush-faced,  new  goals  I  see, 

New  finger-posts  I  find, 

And  still  thro’  rain  and  wind 
A  troop  of  shouting  hopes  keep  step  with  me. 


NEW  POEMS 


341 


Tho’  day  by  day  old  hopes  depart, 
Yet  other  hopes  arise 
If  still  we  bear  a  hopeful  heart 
And  forward-looking  eyes. 


LII 

I  HAVE  a  friend;  I  have  a  story; 

I  have  a  life  that’s  hard  to  live; 

I  love;  my  love  is  all  my  glory; 

I  have  been  hurt  and  I  forgive. 

I  have  a  friend;  none  could  be  better; 

I  stake  my  heart  upon  my  friend ! 

I  love;  I  trust  her  to  the  letter; 

Will  she  deceive  me  in  the  end? 

She  is  my  love,  my  life,  my  jewel; 

My  hope,  my  star,  my  dear  delight. 

God !  but  the  ways  of  God  are  cruel, — 
That  love  should  bow  the  knee  to  spite ! 

She  loves,  she  hates, — a  foul  alliance ! 

One  King  shall  rule  in  one  estate. 

I  only  love;  ’tis  all  my  science; 

A  while,  and  she  will  only  hate. 


LIII 


I  INK  your  arm  in  mine,  my  lad — 
You  and  I  together, 

You  and  I  and  all  the  rest 
Shall  face  the  winter  weather. 


342 


NEW  POEMS 


Chorus 

Some  to  good,  and  some  to  harm. 
Some  to  cheer  the  others, 

All  the  world  goes  arm  in  arm. 
And  all  the  men  are  brothers. 

Fortune  kicks  us  here  and  there, 
Small  our  role  in  life,  lad. 

Better  paltry  pace,  howe’er, 

Than  hero-laurelled  strife,  lad. 

While  there’s  liquor  to  be  had, 
Deeply  drain  the  bickers. 

Ocean  plays  at  marbles,  lad. 

With  men  of  war  for  knickers. 

WTho  will  ever  hear  of  me  ? 

Who  will  hear  of  you,  lad? 

Devil  take  posterity 

And  present  people  too,  lad ! 

I  have  work  enough  to  do, 
Strength  enough  to  do  it — 

I  have  work  and  so  have  you, 

So  put  your  shoulder  to  it ! 

Some  do  half  that  I  can  do, 

Some  can  do  the  double. 

Some  must  rule  for  me  and  you, 
To  save  ourselves  the  trouble ! 


NEW  POEMS 


343 


Who  would  envy  yonder  man 
Decorated  thus,  lad? 

We  are  workingmen  for  him, 
And  he’s  an  earl  for  us,  lad ! 


LIV 


THE  wind  is  without  there  and  howls  in  the  trees, 
And  the  rain-flurries  drum  on  the  glass: 

Alone  by  the  fireside  with  elbows  on  knees 
I  can  number  the  hours  as  they  pass. 

Yet  now,  when  to  cheer  me  the  crickets  begin 
And  my  pipe  is  just  happily  lit, 

Believe  me,  my  friend,  tho’  the  evening  draws  in. 
That  not  all  uncontented  I  sit. 


Alone,  did  I  say?  O  no,  nowise  alone 
With  the  Past  sitting  warm  on  my  knee. 

To  gossip  of  days  that  are  over  and  gone. 

But  still  charming  to  her  and  to  me. 

With  much  to  be  glad  of  and  much  to  deplore. 

Yet,  as  these  days  with  those  we  compare, 
Believe  me,  my  friend,1  tho’  the  sorrows  seem  more 
They  are  somehow  more  easy  to  bear. 

And  thou,  faded  Future,  uncertain  and  frail, 

As  I  cherish  thy  light  in  each  draught, 

His  lamp  is  not  more  to  the  miner — their  sail 
Is  not  more  to  the  crew  on  the  raft. 

For  Hope  can  make  feeble  ones  earnest  and  brave, 

1  This  poem  is  addressed  to  Charles  Baxter. 


344 


NEW  POEMS 


And,  as  forth  thro’  the  years  I  look  on, 

Believe  me,  my  friend,  between  this  and  the  grave, 
I  see  wonderful  things  to  be  done. 

To  do  or  to  try;  and,  believe  me,  my  friend. 

If  the  call  should  come  early  for  me, 

I  can  leave  these  foundations  uprooted,  and  tend 
For  some  new  city  over  the  sea. 

To  do  or  to  try;  and  if  failure  be  mine, 

And  if  Fortune  go  cross  to  my  plan, 

Believe  me,  my  friend,  tho’  I  mourn  the  design 
I  shall  never  lament  for  the  man. 


LV 

A  VALENTINE’S  SONG 


Motley  i  count  the  only  wear 

That  suits,  in  this  mixed  world,  the  truly  wise. 
Who  boldly  smile  upon  despair 

And  shake  their  bells  in  Grandam  Grundy’s  eyes. 
Singers  should  sing  with  such  a  goodly  cheer 

That  the  bare  listening  should  make  strong  like  wine, 
At  this  unruly  time  of  year, 

The  Feast  of  Valentine. 


We  do  not  now  parade  our  44 oughts” 

And  “shoulds”  and  motives  and  beliefs  in  God. 
Their  life  lies  all  indoors;  sad  thoughts 

Must  keep  the  house,  while  gay  thoughts  go  abroad. 
Within  we  hold  the  wake  for  hopes  deceased; 

But  in  the  public  streets,  in  wind  or  sun, 


NEW  POEMS 


345 


Keep  open,  at  the  annual  feast, 

The  puppet-booth  of  fun. 

Our  powers,  perhaps,  are  small  to  please, 

But  even  negro-songs  and  castanettes, 

Old  jokes  and  hackneyed  repartees 

Are  more  than  the  parade  of  vain  regrets. 

Let  Jacques  stand  Wert[h]ering  by  the  wounded  deer — 
We  shall  make  merry,  honest  friends  of  mine, 

At  this  unruly  time  of  year, 

The  Feast  of  Valentine. 

I  know  how,  day  by  weary  day, 

Hope  fades,  love  fades,  a  thousand  pleasures  fade. 

I  have  not  trudged  in  vain  that  way 

On  which  life’s  daylight  darkens,  shade  by  shade. 
And  still,  with  hopes  decreasing,  griefs  increased, 

Still,  with  what  wit  I  have  shall  I,  for  one. 

Keep  open,  at  the  annual  feast, 

The  puppet-booth  of  fun. 

I  care  not  if  the  wit  be  poor. 

The  old  worn  motley  stained  with  rain  and  tears, 

If  but  the  courage  still  endure 

That  filled  and  strengthened  hope  in  earlier  years; 

If  still,  with  friends  averted,  fate  severe, 

A  glad,  untainted  cheerfulness  be  mine 
To  greet  the  unruly  time  of  year, 

The  Feast  of  Valentine. 


346 


NEW  POEMS 


Priest,  I  am  none  of  thine  and  see 

In  the  perspective  of  still  hopeful  youth 
That  Truth  shall  triumph  over  thee — 

Truth  to  one’s  self — I  know  no  other  truth. 

I  see  strange  days  for  thee  and  thine,  O  priest. 

And  how  your  doctrines,  fallen  one  by  one, 

Shall  furnish  at  the  annual  feast 
The  puppet-booth  of  fun. 

Stand  on  your  putrid  ruins — stand, 

White  neck-cloth’d  bigot,  fixedly  the  same, 

Cruel  with  all  things  but  the  hand, 

Inquisitor  in  all  things  but  the  name. 

Back,  minister  of  Christ  and  source  of  fear — 

We  cherish  freedom — back  with  thee  and  thine 
From  this  unruly  time  of  year, 

The  Feast  of  Valentine. 

Blood  thou  mayest  spare;  but  what  of  tears? 

But  what  of  riven  households,  broken  faith — 
Bywords  that  cling  through  all  men’s  years 

And  drag  them  surely  down  to  shame  and  death? 
Stand  back,  O  cruel  man,  0  foe  of  youth. 

And  let  such  men  as  hearken  not  thy  voice 
Press  freely  up  the  road  to  truth, 

The  King’s  highway  of  choice. 

LVI 

HAIL  !  Childish  slaves  of  social  rules 

You  had  yourselves  a  hand  in  making ! 
How  I  could  shake  your  faith,  ye  fools, 

If  but  I  thought  it  worth  the  shaking. 


NEW  POEMS 


347 


I  see,  and  pity  you;  and  then 
Go,  casting  off  the  idle  pity. 

In  search  of  better,  braver  men, 

My  own  way  freely  through  the  city. 

My  own  way  freely,  and  not  yours; 

And,  careless  of  a  town’s  abusing. 

Seek  real  friendship  that  endures 

Among  the  friends  of  my  own  choosing. 

I’ll  choose  my  friends  myself,  do  you  hear? 

And  won’t  let  Mrs.  Grundy  do  it, 

Tho’  all  I  honour  and  hold  dear 

And  all  I  hope  should  move  me  to  it. 

I  take  my  old  coat  from  the  shelf — 

I  am  a  man  of  little  breeding, 

And  only  dress  to  please  myself — 

I  own,  a  very  strange  proceeding. 

I  smoke  a  pipe  abroad,  because 
To  all  cigars  I  much  prefer  it, 

And  as  I  scorn  your  social  laws 
My  choice  has  nothing  to  deter  it. 

Gladly  I  trudge  the  footpath  way. 

While  you  and  yours  roll  by  in  coaches 
In  all  the  pride  of  fine  array. 

Through  all  the  city’s  thronged  approaches 
O  fine,  religious,  decent  folk. 

In  Virtue’s  flaunting  gold  and  scarlet, 

I  sneer  between  two  puffs  of  smoke, — 

Give  me  the  publican  and  harlot. 


348 


NEW  POEMS 


Ye  dainty-spoken,  stiff,  severe 
Seed  of  the  migrated  Philistian, 

One  whispered  question  in  your  ear — 

Pray,  what  was  Christ,  if  you  be  Christian? 
If  Christ  were  only  here  just  now, 

Among  the  city’s  wynds  and  gables 
Teaching  the  life  he  taught  us,  how 
Would  he  be  welcome  to  your  tables  ? 

I  go  and  leave  your  logic-straws, 

Your  former-friends  with  face  averted, 

Your  petty  ways  and  narrow  laws, 

Your  Grundy  and  your  God,  deserted. 

From  your  frail  ark  of  lies,  I  flee 
I  know  not  where,  like  Noah’s  raven. 

Full  to  the  broad,  unsounded  sea 
I  swim  from  your  dishonest  haven. 

Alone  on  that  unsounded  deep, 

Poor  waif,  it  may  be  I  shall  perish. 

Far  from  the  course  I  thought  to  keep. 

Far  from  the  friends  I  hoped  to  cherish. 

It  may  be  I  shall  sink,  and  yet 

Hear,  thro’  all  taunt  and  scornful  laughter, 
Through  all  defeat  and  all  regret, 

The  stronger  swimmers  coming  after. 


LVII 


SWALLOWS  travel  to  and  fro, 

And  the  great  winds  come  and  go. 
And  the  steady  breezes  blow, 

Bearing  perfume,  bearing  love. 


NEW  POEMS 


349 


Breezes  hasten,  swallows  fly, 

Towered  clouds  for  ever  ply. 

And  at  noonday  you  and  I 
See  the  same  sunshine  above. 

Dew  and  rain  fall  everywhere. 

Harvests  ripen,  flowers  are  fair, 

And  the  whole  round  earth  is  bare 
To  the  moonshine  and  the  sun; 

And  the  live  air,  fanned  with  wings, 
Bright  with  breeze  and  sunshine,  brings 
Into  contact  distant  things, 

And  makes  all  the  countries  one. 

Let  us  wander  where  we  will, 

Something  kindred  greets  us  still; 
Something  seen  on  vale  or  hill 
Falls  familiar  on  the  heart; 

So,  at  scent  or  sound  or  sight, 

Severed  souls  by  day  and  night 
Tremble  with  the  same  delight — 
Tremble,  half  the  world  apart. 


LVIII 

TO  MESDAMES  ZASSETSKY  AND 

GARSCHINE1 


THE  wind  may  blaw  the  lee-Iang  way 
And  aye  the  lift  be  mirk  an’  grey, 
And  deep  the  moss  an’  steigh  the  brae 
1  Two  Russian  princesses  whom  Stevenson  met  at  Mentone. 


350 


NEW  POEMS 


Where  a’  maun  gang 
There’s  still  an  hoor  in  ilka  day 
For  luve  and  sang. 

And  canty  hearts  are  strangely  steeled, 

By  some  dikeside  they’ll  find  a  bield, 
Some  couthy  neuk  by  muir  or  field 
They’re  sure  to  hit, 

Where,  frae  the  blatherin’  wind  concealed, 
They’ll  rest  a  bit. 

An’  weel  for  them  if  kindly  fate 
Send  ower  the  hills  to  them  a  mate; 
They’ll  crack  a  while  o’  kirk  an’  State, 

O’  yowes  an’  rain: 

An’  when  it’s  time  to  tak’  the  gate, 

Tak’  ilk  his  ain. 

— Sic  neuk  beside  the  southern  sea 
I  soucht — sic  place  o’  quiet  lee 
Frae  a’  the  winds  o’  life.  To  me. 

Fate,  rarely  fair, 

Had  set  a  freendly  company 
To  meet  me  there. 

Kindly  by  them  they  gart  me  sit, 

An’  blythe  was  I  to  bide  a  bit. 

Licht  as  o’  some  hame  fireside  lit 
My  life  for  me. 

— Ower  early  maun  I  rise  an’  quit 
This  happy  lee. 


NEW  POEMS 


351 


LIX 


TO  MADAME  GARSCHINE 


WHAT  is  the  face,  the  fairest  face,  till  Care, 

Till  Care  the  graver — Care  with  cunning  hand, 
Etches  content  thereon  and  makes  it  fair. 

Or  constancy,  and  love,  and  makes  it  grand? 


LX 

MUSIC  AT  THE  VILLA  MARINA 


FROM  some  abiding  central  source  of  power, 

Strong-smitten  steady  chords,  ye  seem  to  flow 
And,  flowing,  carry  virtue.  Far  below, 

The  vain  tumultuous  passions  of  the  hour 
Fleet  fast  and  disappear;  and  as  the  sun 

Shines  on  the  wake  of  tempests,  there  is  cast 
O’er  all  the  shattered  ruins  of  my  past 
A  strong  contentment  as  of  battles  won. 


And  yet  I  cry  in  anguish,  as  I  hear 

The  long-drawn  pageant  of  your  passage  roll 
Magnificently  forth  into  the  night. 

To  yon  fair  land  ye  come  from,  to  yon  sphere 

Of  strength  and  love  where  now  ye  shape  your  flight, 
O  even  wings  of  music,  bear  my  soul ! 

Ye  have  the  power,  if  but  ye  had  the  will. 

Strong-smitten  steady  chords  in  sequence  grand, 

To  bear  me  forth  into  that  tranquil  land 

Where  good  is  no  more  ravelled  up  with  ill; 


352 


NEW  POEMS 


Where  she  and  I,  remote  upon  some  hill 
Or  by  some  quiet  river’s  windless  strand, 

May  live,  and  love,  and  wander  hand  in  hand, 

And  follow  nature  simply,  and  be  still. 

From  this  grim  world,  where,  sadly,  prisoned,  we 
Sit  bound  with  others’  heart-strings  as  wdth  chains, 
And,  if  one  moves,  all  suffer — to  that  Goal, 

If  such  a  land,  if  such  a  sphere,  there  be, 

Thither,  from  life  and  all  life’s  joys  and  pains, 

O  even  wings  of  music,  bear  my  soul ! 


LXI 


FEAR  not,  dear  friend,  but  freely  live  your  days 
Though  lesser  lives  should  suffer.  Such  am  I, 

A  lesser  life,  that  what  is  his  of  sky 
Gladly  would  give  for  you,  and  what  of  praise. 

Step,  without  trouble,  down  the  sunlit  ways. 

We  that  have  touched  your  raiment,  are  made  whole 
From  all  the  selfish  cankers  of  man’s  soul, 

And  we  would  see  you  happy,  dear,  or  die. 

Therefore  be  brave,  and  therefore,  dear,  be  free; 

Try  all  things  resolutely,  till  the  best, 

Out  of  all  lesser  betters,  you  shall  find; 

And  we,  who  have  learned  greatness  from  you,  we 
Your  lovers,  with  a  still,  contented  mind, 

See  you  well  anchored  in  some  port  of  rest. 


NEW  POEMS 


353 


LXII 

LET  Love  go,  if  go  she  will. 

Seek  not,  O  fool,  her  wanton  flight  to  stay. 
Of  all  she  gives  and  takes  away 
The  best  remains  behind  her  still. 

The  best  remains  behind;  in  vain 
Joy  may  she  give  and  take  again, 

Joy  she  may  take  and  leave  us  pain, 

If  yet  she  leave  behind 
The  constant  mind 
To  meet  all  fortunes  nobly,  to  endure 
All  things  with  a  good  heart,  and  still  be  pure, 
Still  to  be  foremost  in  the  foremost  cause, 

And  still  be  worthy  of  the  love  that  was. 

Love  coming  is  omnipotent  indeed. 

But  not  Love  going.  Let  her  go.  The  seed 
Springs  in  the  favouring  Summer  air,  and  grows. 
And  waxes  strong;  and  when  the  Summer  goes, 
Remains,  a  perfect  tree. 

Joy  she  may  give  and  take  again, 

Joy  she  may  take  and  leave  us  pain. 

O  Love,  and  what  care  we  ? 

For  one  thing  thou  hast  given,  O  Love,  one  thing 
Is  ours  that  nothing  can  remove; 

And  as  the  King  discrowned  is  still  a  King, 

The  unhappy  lover  still  preserves  his  love. 


354 


NEW  POEMS 


LXIII 

IDO  not  fear  to  own  me  kin 

To  the  glad  clods  in  which  spring  flowers  begin 
Or  to  my  brothers,  the  great  trees 
That  speak  with  pleasant  voices  in  the  breeze. 

Loud  talkers  with  the  winds  that  pass; 

Or  to  my  sister,  the  deep  grass. 

Of  such  I  am,  of  such  my  body  is, 

That  thrills  to  reach  its  lips  to  kiss. 

That  gives  and  takes  with  wind  and  sun  and  rain 
And  feels  keen  pleasure  to  the  point  of  pain. 

Of  such  are  these, 

The  brotherhood  of  stalwart  trees. 

The  humble  family  of  flowers, 

That  make  a  light  of  shadowy  bowers 
Or  star  the  edges  of  the  bent: 

They  give  and  take  sweet  colour  and  sweet  scent; 
They  joy  to  shed  themselves  abroad; 

And  tree  and  flower  and  grass  and  sod 
Thrill  and  leap  and  live  and  sing 
With  silent  voices  in  the  Spring. 

Hence  I  not  fear  to  yield  my  breath. 

Since  all  is  still  unchanged  by  death; 

Since  in  some  pleasant  valley  I  may  be. 

Clod  beside  clod,  or  tree  by  tree, 

Long  ages  hence,  wuth  her  I  love  this  hour; 

And  feel  a  lively  joy  to  share 
With  her  the  sun  and  rain  and  air, 

To  taste  her  quiet  neighbourhood 


NEW  POEMS 


355 


As  the  dumb  things  of  field  and  wood. 
The  clod,  the  tree,  the  starry  flower, 
Alone  of  all  things  have  the  power. 


LXIV 

I  AM  like  one  that  for  long  days  had  sate. 

With  seaward  eyes  set  keen  against  the  gale, 

On  some  lone  foreland,  watching  sail  by  sail. 

The  portbound  ships  for  one  ship  that  was  late; 

And  sail  by  sail,  his  heart  burned  up  with  joy. 

And  cruelly  was  quenched,  until  at  last 
One  ship,  the  looked-for  pennant  at  its  mast, 

Bore  gaily,  and  dropt  safely  past  the  buoy; 

And  lo !  the  loved  one  was  not  there — was  dead. 

Then  would  he  watch  no  more;  no  more  the  sea 
With  myriad  vessels,  sail  by  sail,  perplex 
His  eyes  and  mock  his  longing.  Weary  head, 

Take  now  thy  rest;  eyes,  close;  for  no  more  me 
Shall  hopes  untried  elate,  or  ruined  vex. 

For  thus  on  love  I  waited;  thus  for  love 
Strained  all  my  senses  eagerly  and  long; 

Thus  for  her  coming  ever  trimmed  my  song; 

Till  in  the  far  skies  coloured  as  a  dove, 

A  bird  gold-coloured  flickered  far  and  fled 
Over  the  pathless  waterwaste  for  me; 

And  with  spread  hands  I  watched  the  bright  bird  flee 
And  waited,  till  before  me  she  dropped  dead. 

O  golden  bird  in  these  dove-coloured  skies 
How  long  I  sought,  how  long  with  wearied  eyes 


356 


NEW  POEMS 


I  sought,  O  bird,  the  promise  of  thy  flight ! 

And  now  the  morn  has  dawned,  the  morn  has  died, 
The  day  has  come  and  gone;  and  once  more  night 
About  my  lone  life  settles,  wild  and  wide. 


LXV 

SIT  doon  by  me,  my  canty  freend. 
Sit  doon,  an’  snuff  the  licht ! 

A  boll  o’  bear’s  in  ilka  glass 
Ye’se  drink  wi’  me  the  nicht ! 


Chorus 

Let  preachers  prate  o’  soberness 
An’  brand  us  ripe  for  doom, 

Yet  still  we’ll  lo’e  the  brimmin’  glass, 
And  still  we’ll  hate  the  toom. 


There’s  fire  an’  life  in  ilka  glass, 
There’s  blythesomeness  an’  cheer, 
There’s  thirst  an’  what’ll  slocken  it, 
There’s  love  and  laughter  here. 


O  mirk  an’  black  the  lee  lang  gate 
That  we  maun  gang  the  nicht, 

But  aye  we’ll  pass  the  brimmin’  glass 
An’  aye  we’ll  snuff  the  licht. 


We’ll  draw  the  closer  roond  the  fire 
And  aye  the  closer  get. 

Without,  the  ways  may  thaw  or  freeze, 
Within  we’re  roarin’  wet ! 


NEW  POEMS 


357 


LXVI 


HERE  he 1  comes,  big  with  statistics, 
Troubled  and  sharp  about  fac’s. 

He  has  heap  of  the  Form  that  is  thinkable 
The  stuff  that  is  feeling,  he  lacks. 


Do  you  envy  this  whiskered  absurdity, 
With  pince-nez  and  clerical  tie? 

Poor  fellow,  he’s  blind  of  a  sympathy ! 
I’d  rather  be  blind  of  an  eye. 


LXVII 

VOLUNTARY 

HERE  in  the  quiet  eve 

My  thankful  eyes  receive 
The  quiet  light. 

I  see  the  trees  stand  fair 
Against  the  faded  air, 

And  star  by  star  prepare 
The  perfect  night. 


And  in  my  bosom,  lo ! 

Content  and  quiet  grow 
Toward  perfect  peace. 

And  now  when  day  is  done. 

Brief  day  of  wind  and  sun, 

The  pure  stars,  one  by  one. 

Their  troop  increase. 

1  Some  one  of  the  professors  with  whom  Stevenson  studied  law  in 
1874-5. 


358 


NEW  POEMS 


Keen  pleasure  and  keen  grief 
Give  place  to  great  relief: 

Farewell  my  tears ! 

Still  sounds  toward  me  float; 

I  hear  the  bird’s  small  note, 
Sheep  from  the  far  sheepcote 
And  lowing  steers. 

For  lo !  the  war  is  done, 

Lo,  now  the  battle  won, 

The  trumpets  still. 

The  shepherd’s  slender  strain. 
The  country  sounds  again 
Awake  in  wood  and  plain, 

On  haugli  and  hill. 

Loud  wars  and  loud  loves  cease. 
I  welcome  my  release; 

And  hail  once  more 
Free  foot  and  way  world-wide 
And  oft  at  eventide 
Light  love  to  talk  beside 
The  hostel  door. 


LXVIII 


ON0W,  although  the  year  be  done. 
Now,  although  the  love  be  dead, 
Dead  and  gone; 

Hear  me,  O  loved  and  cherished  one. 
Give  me  still  the  hand  that  led, 

Led  me  on. 


NEW  POEMS 


359 


LXIX 


AD  SE  IPSUM 


DEAR  sir,  good-morrow  !  Five  years  back. 

When  you  first  girded  for  this  arduous  track, 
And  under  various  whimsical  pretexts 
Endowed  another  with  your  damned  defects. 

Could  you  have  dreamed  in  your  despondent  vein 
That  the  kind  God  would  make  your  path  so  plain? 
Non  nobis ,  domine!  O,  may  tie  still 
Support  my  stumbling  footsteps  on  the  hill ! 


LXX 

IN  the  green  and  gallant  Spring, 

Love  and  the  lyre  I  thought  to  sing 
And  kisses  sweet  to  give  and  take 
By  the  flowery  hawthorn  brake. 

Now  is  russet  Autumn  here. 

Death  and  the  grave  and  winter  drear. 
And  I  must  ponder  here  aloof 
While  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 


LXXI 


DEATH,  to  the  dead  for  evermore 

A  King,  a  God,  the  last,  the  best  of  friends — 
Whene’er  this  mortal  journey  ends 
Death  like  a  host,  comes  smiling  to  the  door; 
Smiling,  he  greets  us,  on  that  tranquil  shore 


360 


NEW  POEMS 


Where  neither  piping  bird  nor  peeping  dawn 
Disturbs  the  eternal  sleep, 

But  in  the  stillness  far  withdrawn 
Our  dreamless  rest  for  evermore  we  keep. 

For  as  from  open  windows  forth  we  peep 
Upon  the  night-time  star  beset 
And  with  dews  for  ever  wet; 

So  from  this  garish  life  the  spirit  peers; 

And  lo !  as  a  sleeping  city  doth  outspread, 
Where  breathe  the  sleepers  evenly ;  and  lo ! 

After  the  loud  wars,  triumphs,  trumpets,  tears 
And  clamour  of  man’s  passion,  Death  appears 
And  we  must  rise  and  go. 

Soon  are  eyes  tired  with  sunshine;  soon  the  ears 
Weary  of  utterance,  seeing  all  is  said; 

Soon,  racked  by  hopes  and  fears, 

The  all-pondering,  all-contriving  head, 

Weary  with  all  things,  wearies  of  the  years; 

And  our  sad  spirits  turn  toward  the  dead; 

And  the  tired  child,  the  body,  longs  for  bed. 


LXXII 


TO  CHARLES  BAXTER 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THEIR  COMMON  FRIEND,  MR.  JOHN 


ADAM,  CLERK  OF  COURT 


UR  Johnie’s  deid.  The  mair’s  the  pity ! 


He’s  deid,  an’  deid  o’  Aqua-vitae. 
O  Embro’,  you’re  a  shrunken  city, 

Noo  Johnie’s  deid ! 


NEW  POEMS 


361 


Tak’  hands,  an’  sing  a  burial  ditty 
Ower  Johnie’s  heid. 

To  see  him  was  baith  drink  an’  meat, 
Gaun  linkin’  glegly  up  the  street. 

He  but  to  rin  or  tak’  a  seat, 

The  wee  bit  body  ! 

Bein’  aye  unsicker  on  his  feet 
Wi’  whusky  toddy. 

To  be  aye  tosh  was  Johnie’s  whim, 
There’s  nane  was  better  tent  than  him, 
Though  whiles  his  gravit-knot  wad  dim’ 
Ahint  his  ear, 

An’  whiles  he’d  buttons  oot  or  in 
The  less  or  mair. 

His  hair  a’  lank  about  his  bree. 

His  tap-lip  lang  by  inches  three, — 

A  slockened  sort  o’  mon’,  to  pree 
A’  sensuality — 

A  drouthy  glint  was  in  his  e’e 
An’  personality. 

An’  day  an’  nicht,  free  daw  to  daw, 
Dink  an’  perjink  an’  doucely  braw, 

Wi’  a  kind  o’  Gospel  ower  a’, 

May  or  October, 

Like  Peden,  followin’  the  Law 
And  no’  that  sober. 


362 


NEW  POEMS 


Whusky  an’  he  were  pack  thegether. 

Whate’er  the  hour,  whate’er  the  weather, 

John  kept  himseF  wF  mistened  leather 
An’  kindled  spunk. 

Wi’  him,  there  was  nae  askin’  whether. — 

John  was  aye  drunk. 

The  auncient  heroes  gash  an’  bauld 

In  the  uncanny  days  of  auld, 

The  task  ance  fo[u]nd  to  which  th’  were  called, 
Stack  stenchly  to  it. 

His  life  sic  noble  lives  recalled, 

Little’s  he  knew  it. 

Single  an’  straucht,  he  went  his  way. 

He  kept  the  faith  an’  played  the  play, 

Whusky  an’  he  were  man  an’  may 
Whate’er  betided. 

Bonny  in  life — in  death  this  twae 
Were  no’  divided. 

An’  wow !  but  John  was  unco  sport. 

Whiles  he  wad  smile  aboot  the  Court 

Malvolio-like — whiles  snore  an’  snort, 

Was  heard  afar. 

The  idle  winter  lads’  resort 
Was  aye  John’s  bar. 

What’s  merely  humorous  or  bonny 

The  Worl’  regairds  wi’  cauld  astony. 

Drunk  men  tak’  aye  mair  place  than  ony; 


NEW  POEMS 


363 


An’  sae,  ye  see. 

The  gate  was  aye  ower  thrang  for  Johnie 
Or  you  an’  me. 

John  micht  hae  jingled  cap  an’  bells. 

Been  a  braw  fule  in  silks  an’  pells, 

In  ane  o’  the  auld  works  canty  hells, 
Paris  or  Sodom. 

I  wadna  had  him  naething  else 
But  Johnie  Adam. 

He  suffered — as  have  a’  that  wan 

Eternal  memory  frae  man. 

Since  e’er  the  weary  work  began — 

Mister  or  Madam, 

Keats  or  Scots  Burns,  the  Spanish  Don 
Or  Johnie  Adam. 

We  leuch,  an’  Johnie  deid.  An’,  fegs ! 

Hoo  he  had  keept  his  stoiterin’  legs 

Sae  lang’s  he  did,  ’s  a  fact  that  begs 
An  explanation. 

He  stachers  fifty  years — syne  plegs 
To’s  destination. 


LXXIII 


THE  look  of  Death  is  both  severe  and  mild. 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet; 
He  holds  ajar  the  door  of  his  retreat; 

The  hermitage  of  life,  it  may  be  styled; 


364 


NEW  POEMS 


He  pardons  sinners,  cleanses  the  defiled. 

And  comfortably  welcomes  weary  feet. 

The  look  of  Death  is  both  severe  and  mild, 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet. 

And  you  that  have  been  loving  pleasure  wild. 
Long  known  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  street, 
Lift  up  your  eyes  and  see,  Death  waits  to  greet, 
As  a  kind  parent  a  repentant  child. 

The  bugle  sounds  the  muster  roll, 

The  blacksmith  blows  the  roaring  coal; 

The  look  of  Death  is  both  severe  and  mild, 

And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet. 


LXXIV 

HER  1  name  is  as  a  word  of  old  romance 

That  thrills  a  careless  reader  out  of  sleep. 
Love  and  old  art,  and  all  things  pure  and  deep 
Attend  on  her  to  honour  her  advance, — 

The  brave  old  wars  where  bearded  heroes  prance. 
The  courtly  mien  that  private  virtues  keep, — 
Her  name  is  as  a  word  of  old  romance. 

Peer  has  she  none  in  England  or  in  France, 

So  well  she  knows  to  rouse  dull  souls  [from  sleep] 
So  deftly  can  she  comfort  those  who  weep 
And  put  kind  thought  and  comfort  in  a  glance. 
Her  name  is  as  a  [word  of  old  romance]. 

1  Probably  Mrs.  Sidney  Colvin. 


NEW  POEMS 


365 


LXXV 

IN  Autumn  when  the  woods  are  red 
And  skies  are  grey  and  clear. 

The  sportsmen  seek  the  wild  fowls’  bed 
Or  follow  down  the  deer; 

And  Cupid  hunts  by  haugh  and  head. 
By  riverside  and  mere. 

I  walk,  not  seeing  where  I  tread 
And  keep  my  heart  with  fear, 

Sir,  have  an  eye,  on  where  you  tread. 
And  keep  your  heart  with  fear. 

For  something  lingers  here; 

A  touch  of  April  not  yet  dead, 

In  Autumn  wdien  the  woods  are  red 
And  skies  are  grey  and  clear. 


LXXVI 


Light  as  my  heart  was  long  ago, 
Now  it  is  heavy  enough; 

Now  that  the  weather  is  rough, 

Now  that  the  loud  winds  come  and  go, 
Winter  is  here  with  hail  and  snow, 
Winter  is  sorry  and  gruff. 

Light  as  last  year’s  snow, 

Where  is  my  love?  I  do  not  know; 
Life  is  a  pitiful  stuff, 

Out  with  it — out  with  the  snuff ! 

This  is  the  sum  of  all  I  know, 

Light  as  my  heart  was  long  ago. 


366 


NEW  POEMS 


LXXVII 


GATHER  ye  roses  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying; 

A  world  where  beauty  fleets  away 
Is  no  world  for  denying. 

Come  lads  and  lasses,  fall  to  play 
Lose  no  more  time  in  sighing. 

The  very  flowers  you  pluck  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying; 

And  all  the  flowers  are  crying, 

And  all  the  leaves  have  tongues  to  say, — 
Gather  ye  roses  while  ye  may. 


LXXVIII 

POEM  FOR  A  CLASS  RE-UNION 


HETHER  we  like  it,  or  don’t, 
There’s  a  sort  of  bond  in  the  fact 


That  we  all  by  one  master  1  were  taught, 
By  one  master  were  bullied  and  whackt. 
And  now  all  the  more  when  we  see 
Our  class  in  so  shrunken  a  state 
And  we,  who  were  seventy-two, 
Diminished  to  seven  or  eight. 

One  has  been  married,  and  one 
Has  taken  to  letters  for  bread; 

Several  are  over  the  seas; 

And  some  I  imagine  are  dead. 


1  Mr.  D’Arcy  Wentworth  Thompson,  whose  private  school  in  Edin¬ 
burgh  Stevenson  attended,  1864-1867. 


NEW  POEMS 


367 


And  that  is  the  reason,  you  see, 

Why,  as  I  have  the  honour  to  state, 
We,  who  were  seventy-two, 

Are  now  only  seven  or  eight. 

One  took  to  heretical  views, 

And  one,  they  inform  me,  to  drink; 
Some  construct  fortunes  in  trade, 

Some  starve  in  professions,  I  think. 
But  one  way  or  other,  alas ! 

Through  the  culpable  action  of  Fate 
We,  who  were  seventy-two, 

Are  now  shrunken  to  seven  or  eight. 

So,  whether  we  like  it  or  not. 

Let  us  own  there’s  a  bond  in  the  past, 
And,  since  we  were  playmates  at  school, 
Continue  good  friends  to  the  last. 

The  roll-book  is  closed  in  the  room, 

The  clackan  is  gone  with  the  slate, 
We,  who  were  seventy-two. 

Are  now  only  seven  or  eight. 

We  shall  never,  our  books  on  our  back, 
Trudge  off  in  the  morning  again, 

To  the  slide  at  the  janitor’s  door, 

By  the  ambush  of  rods  in  the  lane. 
We  shall  never  be  sent  for  the  tawse, 
Nor  lose  places  for  coming  too  late; 
We  shall  never  be  seventy-two. 

Who  are  now  but  seven  or  eight ! 


308 


NEW  POEMS 


We  shall  never  have  pennies  for  lunch, 

We  shall  never  be  strapped  by  Maclean, 
We  shall  never  take  gentlemen  down, 

Nor  ever  be  schoolboys  again. 

But  still  for  the  sake  of  the  past, 

For  the  love  of  the  days  of  lang  syne 
The  remnant  of  seventy-two 
Shall  rally  together  to  dine. 


LXXIX 

I  SAW  red  evening  through  the  rain 
Lower  above  the  steaming  plain; 

I  heard  the  hour  strike  small  and  still, 
From  the  black  belfry  on  the  hill. 

Thought  is  driven  out  of  doors  to-night 
By  bitter  memory  of  delight; 

The  sharp  constraint  of  finger  tips, 

Or  the  shuddering  touch  of  lips. 

I  heard  the  hour  strike  small  and  still, 
From  the  black  belfry  on  the  hill. 
Behind  me  I  could  still  look  down 
On  the  outspread  monstrous  towm. 

The  sharp  constraint  of  finger  tips, 

Or  the  shuddering  touch  of  lips. 

And  all  old  memories  of  delight 
Crowd  upon  my  soul  to-night. 


NEW  POEMS 


369 


Behind  me  I  could  still  look  down 
On  the  outspread  feverish  town; 
But  before  me,  still  and  grey, 

And  lonely  was  the  forward  way. 


LXXX 

I  AST  night  we  had  a  thunderstorm  in  style. 

The  wild  lightning  streaked  the  airs. 

As  though  my  God  fell  down  a  pair  of  stairs. 

The  thunder  boomed  and  bounded  all  the  while; 
All  cried  and  sat  by  water-side  and  stile, — 

To  mop  our  brow  had  been  our  chief  of  cares. 

I  lay  in  bed  with  a  Voltairean  smile, 

The  terror  of  good,  simple  guilty  pairs, 

And  made  this  rondeau  in  ironic  style, 

Last  night  we  had  a  thunderstorm  in  style. 

Our  God  the  Father  fell  down-stairs, 

The  stark  blue  lightning  went  its  flight  the  while, 
The  very  rain  you  might  have  heard  a  mile, — 
The  strenuous  faithful  buckled  to  their  prayers. 


LXXXI 


OLADY  fair  and  sweet 
Arise  and  let  us  go 
Where  comes  not  rain  or  snow, 
Excess  of  cold  or  heat, 

To  find  a  still  retreat 
By  willowy  valleys  low 
Where  silent  rivers  flow. 


370 


NEW  POEMS 


There  let  us  turn  our  feet 
O  lady  fair  and  sweet, — 

Far  from  the  noisy  street, 

The  doleful  city  row, 

Far  from  the  grimy  street. 
Where  in  the  evening  glow 
The  summer  swallows  meet. 
The  quiet  mowers  mow. 

Arise  and  let  us  go, 

O  lady  fair  and  sweet, 

For  here  the  loud  winds  blow. 
Here  drifts  the  blinding  sleet. 


LXXXII 

IF  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove 
I  should  not  linger  here. 

But  through  the  winter  air  toward  my  love. 
Fly  swift  toward  my  love,  my  fair, 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove. 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove, 

And  knew  the  secrets  of  the  air, 

I  should  be  gone,  my  lady,  to  my  love, 

To  kiss  the  sweet  disparting  of  her  hair, 
If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove. 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove, 

This  hour  should  see  my  soul  at  rest, 
Should  see  me  safe,  my  lady,  with  my  love. 
To  kiss  the  sweet  division  of  her  breast, 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove. 


NEW  POEMS 


371 


For  all  is  sweet,  my  lady,  in  my  love; 

Sweet  hair,  sweet  breast  and  sweeter  eyes 
That  draw  my  soul,  my  lady,  like  a  dove 

Drawn  southward  by  the  shining  of  the  skies; 
For  all  is  sweet,  my  lady,  in  my  love. 

If  I  could  die,  my  lady,  with  my  love, 

Die,  mouth  to  mouth,  a  splendid  death, 

I  should  take  wing,  my  lady,  like  a  dove, 

To  spend  upon  her  lips  my  all  of  breath, 

If  I  could  die,  my  lady,  with  my  love. 


LXXXIII 

RONDELS 

1 

FAR  have  you  come,  my  lady,1  from  the  town, 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please, 
To  smell  the  good  sea-winds  and  hear  the  seas, 
And  in  green  meadows  lay  your  body  down. 

To  find  your  pale  face  grow  from  pale  to  brown, 
Your  sad  eyes  growing  brighter  by  degrees; 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town, 
And  far  from  all  your  sorrows,  if  you  please. 

Here  in  this  seaboard  land  of  old  renown. 

In  meadow  grass  go  wading  to  the  knees; 

Bathe  your  whole  soul  a  while  in  simple  ease; 
There  is  no  sorrow  but  the  sea  can  drown; 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town. 

1  Mrs.  Sitwell  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Sidney  Colvin. 


372 


NEW  POEMS 

2 

Nous  n  irons  plus  au  hois 

WE’LL  walk  the  woods  no  more, 
But  stay  beside  the  fire, 

To  weep  for  old  desire 
And  things  that  are  no  more. 

The  woods  are  spoiled  and  hoar. 
The  ways  are  full  of  mire; 

We’ll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 

But  stay  beside  the  fire. 

We  loved,  in  days  of  yore, 

Love,  laughter,  and  the  lyre. 

Ah  God,  but  death  is  dire, 

And  death  is  at  the  door — 

We’ll  walk  the  woods  no  more. 


3 


SINCE  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life 
And  not  to  keep  an  easy  heart, 
Some  men  may  sit  and  drink  apart, 

I  bear  a  banner  in  the  strife. 


Some  can  take  quiet  thought  to  wife, 
I  am  all  day  at  tierce  and  carte , 

Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  mv  life 
And  not  to  keep  an  easy  heart. 


NEW  POEMS 


373 


I  follow  gaily  to  the  fife, 

Leave  Wisdom  bowed  above  a  chart, 
And  Prudence  brawling  in  the  mart. 
And  dare  Misfortune  to  the  knife, 
Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life. 


LXXXIV 


Eh,  man  Henley,  you’re  a  Don ! 

Man,  but  you’re  a  deevil  at  it ! 
This  ye  made  an  hour  agone — 

Tht ! — like  that — as  tho’  ye’d  spat  it, — 
Eh,  man  Henley. 

Better  days  will  come  anon 
When  you’ll  have  your  shoulders  pattit, 
And  the  whole  round  world,  odd  rat  it ! 
Will  cry  out  to  cheer  you  on; 

Eh,  man  Henley,  you’re  a  Don ! 


LXXXV 


LL  night  through,  raves  or  broods 


P*  The  fitful  wind  among  the  woods; 
All  night  through,  hark !  the  rain 
Beats  upon  the  window  pane. 

And  still  my  heart  is  far  away, 

Still  dwells  in  many  a  bygone  day, 

And  still  follows  hope  with  [rainbow  wing] 
Adown  the  golden  ways  of  spring. 


374 


NEW  POEMS 


In  many  a  wood  my  fancy  strays. 
In  many  unforgotten  Mays, 

And  still  I  feel  the  wandering — 


LXXXVI 


THE  rain  is  over  and  done; 

I  am  aweary,  dear,  of  love; 

I  look  below  and  look  above. 

On  russet  maiden,  rustling  dame, 

And  love’s  so  slow  and  time  so  long, 
And  hearts  and  eyes  so  blindly  wrong, 
I  am  half  weary  of  my  love, 

And  pray  that  life  were  done. 


LXXXVII 


THERE  where  the  land  of  love, 

Grown  about  by  fragrant  bushes, 
Sunken  in  a  winding  valley, 

Where  the  clear  winds  blow 
And  the  shadows  come  and  go. 

And  the  cattle  stand  and  low 
And  the  sheep  bells  and  the  linnets 
Sing  and  tinkle  musically. 

Between  the  past  and  the  future. 
Those  two  black  infinities 
Between  which  our  brief  life 
Flashes  a  moment  and  goes  out. 


NEW  POEMS 


375 


LXXXVIII 

10 VE  is  the  very  heart  of  spring; 

Flocks  fall  to  loving  on  the  lea 
And  wildfowl  love  upon  the  wing 
When  spring  first  enters  like  a  sea. 

When  spring  first  enters  like  a  sea 
Into  the  heart  of  everything. 

Bestir  yourselves  religiously, 

Incense  before  love’s  altar  bring. 

Incense  before  love’s  altar  bring, 

Flowers  from  the  flowering  hawthorn  tree, 
Flowers  from  the  margin  of  the  spring, 

For  all  the  flowers  are  sweet  to  see. 

Love  is  the  very  heart  of  spring; 

When  spring  first  enters  like  a  sea 
Incense  before  love’s  altar  bring, 

And  flowers  while  flowers  are  sweet  to  see. 

Bring  flowers  while  flowers  are  sweet  to  see; 

Love  is  almighty,  love’s  a  King, 

Incense  before  love’s  altar  bring, 

Incense  before  love’s  altar  bring. 

Love’s  gifts  are  generous  and  free 
When  spring  first  enters  like  a  sea; 

When  spring  first  enters  like  a  sea. 

The  birds  are  all  inspired  to  sing. 


376 


NEW  POEMS 


Love  is  the  very  heart  of  spring, 
The  birds  are  all  inspired  to  sing, 
Love’s  gifts  are  generous  and  free; 
Love  is  almighty,  love’s  a  King. 


LXXXIX 

ON  HIS  PITIABLE  TRANS¬ 
FORMATION 

I  WHO  was  young  so  long, 
Young  and  alert  and  gay. 
Now  that  my  hair  is  grey, 
Begin  to  change  my  song. 

Now  I  know  right  from  wrong, 
Now  I  know  yay  and  pray, 

I  who  was  young  so  long, 
Young  and  alert  and  gay. 

Now  I  follow  the  throng, 

Walk  in  the  beaten  way, 

Hear  what  the  elders  say, 

And  own  that  I  was  wrong — 

I  who  was  young  so  long. 


xc 

I  WHO  all  the  winter  through, 

Cherished  other  loves  than  you, 

And  kept  hands  with  hoary  policy  in  marriage-bed  and 
pew; 


NEW  POEMS 


377 


Now  I  know  the  false  and  true, 

For  the  earnest  sun  looks  through, 

And  my  old  love  comes  to  meet  me  in  the  dawning  and 
the  dew. 

Now  the  hedged  meads  renew 
Rustic  odour,  smiling  hue, 

And  the  clean  air  shines  and  twinkles  as  the  world  goes 
wheeling  through; 

And  my  heart  springs  up  anew, 

Bright  and  confident  and  true, 

And  my  old  love  comes  to  meet  me  in  the  dawning  and 
the  dew. 


XCI 


10 VE — what  is  love?  A  great  and  aching  heart; 

Wrung  hands;  and  silence;  and  a  long  despair. 
Life — what  is  life  ?  Upon  a  moorland  bare 
To  see  love  coming  and  see  love  depart. 


XCII 

SOON  our  friends  perish, 

Soon  all  we  cherish 

Fades  as  days  darken — goes  as  flowers  go. 
Soon  in  December 
Over  an  ember, 

Lonely  we  hearken,  as  loud  winds  blow. 


378 


i 


NEW  POEMS 


XCIII 

AS  one  who  having  wandered  all  night  long 
>•  In  a  perplexed  forest,  comes  at  length, 

In  the  first  hours,  about  the  matin  song, 

And  when  the  sun  uprises  in  his  strength, 

To  the  fringed  margin  of  the  wood,  and  sees. 

Gazing  afar  before  him,  many  a  mile 
Of  falling  country,  many  fields  and  trees, 

And  cities  and  bright  streams  and  far-off  Ocean’s 
smile : — 

I,  O  Melampus,  halting,  stand  at  gaze: 

I,  liberated,  look  abroad  on  life, 

Love,  and  distress,  and  dusty  travelling  ways. 

The  steersman’s  helm,  the  surgeon’s  helpful  knife, 
On  the  lone  ploughman’s  earth-upturning  share, 

The  revelry  of  cities  and  the  sound 
Of  seas,  and  mountain-tops  aloof  in  air, 

And  of  the  circling  earth  the  unsupported  round: 

I,  looking,  wonder:  I,  intent,  adore; 

And,  O  Melampus,  reaching  forth  my  hands 
In  adoration,  cry  aloud  and  soar 

In  spirit,  high  above  the  supine  lands 
And  the  low  caves  of  mortal  things,  and  flee 
To  the  last  fields  of  the  universe  untrod. 

Where  is  no  man,  nor  any  earth,  nor  sea, 

And  the  contented  soul  is  all  alone  with  God. 


NEW  POEMS 

XCIV 

STRANGE  are  the  ways  of  men, 
And  strange  the  ways  of  God ! 
We  tread  the  mazy  paths 
That  all  our  fathers  trod. 


379 


We  tread  them  undismayed. 

And  undismayed  behold 

The  portents  of  the  sky, 

The  things  that  were  of  old. 

The  fiery  stars  pursue 

Their  course  in  heav’n  on  high; 

And  round  the  ’leaguered  town,1 
Crest-tossing  heroes  cry. 

Crest- tossing  heroes  cry; 

And  martial  fifes  declare 

How  small,  to  mortal  minds, 

Is  merely  mortal  care. 

And  to  the  clang  of  steel 
And  cry  of  piercing  flute 

Upon  the  azure  peaks 

A  God  shall  plant  his  foot: 

A  God  in  arms  shall  stand, 

And  seeing  wide  and  far 

The  green  and  golden  earth 
The  killing  tide  of  war, 

1  Constantinople.  In  April,  1877,  Russia  declared  war  on  Turkey 
and  within  a  year  the  Russian  army  was  striking  at  Constantinople. 


380 


NEW  POEMS 


He,  with  uplifted  arm, 

Shall  to  the  skies  proclaim 
The  gleeful  fate  of  man 
The  noble  road  to  fame ! 


XCV 


THE  wind  blew  shrill  and  smart. 
And  the  wind  awoke  my  heart 
Again  to  go  a-sailing  o’er  the  sea. 

To  hear  the  cordage  moan 
And  the  straining  timbers  groan, 
And  to  see  the  flying  pennon  lie  a-lee. 


O  sailor  of  the  fleet, 

It  is  time  to  stir  the  feet ! 

It’s  time  to  man  the  dingy  and  to  row ! 

It’s  lay  your  hand  in  mine 
And  it’s  empty  down  the  wine. 

And  it’s  drain  a  health  to  death  before  we  go ! 

To  death,  my  lads,  we  sail; 

And  it’s  death  that  blows  the  gale 
And  death  that  holds  the  tiller  as  we  ride. 

For  he’s  the  king  of  all 
In  the  tempest  and  the  squall, 

And  the  ruler  of  the  Ocean  wild  and  wide ! 


NEW  POEMS 


381 


XCVI 


MAN  sails  the  deep  a  while; 

Loud  runs  the  roaring  tide; 

The  seas  are  wild  and  wide; 

O’er  many  a  salt,  o’er  many  a  desert  mile. 
The  unchained  breakers  ride. 

The  quivering  stars  beguile. 


Hope  bears  the  sole  command; 

Hope,  with  unshaken  eyes, 

Sees  flaw  and  storm  arise; 

Hope,  the  good  steersman,  with  unwearying  hand, 
Steers,  under  changing  skies, 

Unchanged  toward  the  land. 

O  wind  that  bravely  blows ! 

O  hope  that  sails  with  all 
Where  stars  and  voices  call ! 

O  ship  undaunted  that  for  ever  goes 
Where  God,  her  admiral, 

His  battle  signal  shows ! 


What  though  the  seas  and  wind 
Far  on  the  deep  should  whelm 
Colours  and  sails  and  helm  ? 

There,  too,  you  touch  that  port  that  you  designed — 
There,  in  the  mid-seas’  realm, 

Shall  you  that  haven  find. 

Well  hast  thou  sailed:  now  die, 

To  die  is  not  to  sleep. 


382 


NEW  POEMS 


Still  your  true  course  you  keep, 

O  sailor  soul,  still  sailing  for  the  sky; 

And  fifty  fathom  deep 
Your  colours  still  shall  fly. 

XCVII 

THE  cock’s  clear  voice  into  the  clearer  air 
Where  westward  far  I  roam,1 
Mounts  with  a  thrill  of  hope, 

Falls  with  a  sigh  of  home. 

A  rural  sentry,  he  from  farm  and  field 
The  coming  morn  descries. 

And,  mankind’s  bugler,  wakes 
The  camp  of  enterprise. 

He  sings  the  morn  upon  the  westward  hills 
Strange  and  remote  and  wild; 

He  sings  it  in  the  land 
Where  once  I  was  a  child. 

He  brings  to  me  dear  voices  of  the  past 
The  old  land  and  the  years: 

My  father  calls  for  me, 

My  weeping  spirit  hears. 

Fife,  fife,  into  the  golden  air,  O  bird, 

And  sing  the  morning  in; 

For  the  old  days  are  past 
And  newer  days  begin. 

1  This  poem  was  written  on  the  train  as  Stevenson  crossed  America 
to  join  Mrs.  Osbourne  whom  he  was  soon  to  marry. 


NEW  POEMS 


383 


XCVIII 


NOW  when  the  number  of  my  years1 
Is  all  fulfilled,  and  I 
From  sedentary  life 
Shall  rouse  me  up  to  die, 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie 
Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky. 
Joying  to  live,  I  joyed  to  die, 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie. 


Clear  was  my  soul,  my  deeds  were  free. 
Honour  was  called  my  name, 

I  fell  not  back  from  fear 
Nor  followed  after  fame. 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie 
Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky. 
Joying  to  live,  I  joyed  to  die, 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie. 


Bury  me  low  in  valleys  green 
And  where  the  milder  breeze 
Blows  fresh  along  the  stream. 

Sings  roundly  in  the  trees — 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie 
Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky. 

Joying  to  live,  I  joyed  to  die, 

Bury  me  low  and  let  me  lie. 

1  The  earliest  form  (1879)  of  the  famous  poem,  Requiem,  published 
in  1887. 


384 


NEW  POEMS 


XCIX 

WHAT  man  may  learn,  what  man  may  do, 
Of  right  or  wrong,  of  false  or  true, 

While,  skipper-like,  his  course  he  steers 
Through  nine  and  twenty  mingled  years. 

Half  misconceived  and  half  forgot, 

So  much  I  know  and  practise  not. 

Old  are  the  words  of  wisdom,  old 
The  counsels  of  the  wise  and  bold: 

To  close  the  ears,  to  check  the  tongue. 

To  keep  the  pining  spirit  young; 

To  act  the  right,  to  say  the  true. 

And  to  be  kind  whate’er  you  do. 

Thus  we  across  the  modern  stage 
Follow  the  wise  of  every  age; 

And,  as  oaks  grow  and  rivers  run 
Unchanged  in  the  unchanging  sun, 

So  the  eternal  march  of  man 
Goes  forth  on  an  eternal  plan. 

C 

THE  SUSQUEHANNA  AND  THE 
DELAWARE 

TO  SIDNEY  COLVIN 

OF  where  or  how,  I  nothing  know; 

And  why,  I  do  not  care; 

Enough  if,  even  so, 

My  travelling  eyes,  my  travelling  mind  can  go 


NEW  POEMS 


385 


By  flood  and  field  and  hill,  by  wood  and  meadow  fair. 
Beside  the  Susquehanna  and  along  the  Delaware. 

I  think,  I  hope,  I  dream  no  more 
The  dreams  of  otherwhere, 

The  cherished  thoughts  of  yore; 

I  have  been  changed  from  what  I  was  before; 

And  drunk  too  deep  perchance  the  lotus  of  the  air, 
Beside  the  Susquehanna  and  along  the  Delaware. 

Unweary,  God  me  yet  shall  bring 
To  lands  of  brighter  air, 

Where  I,  now  half  a  king, 

Shall  with  enfranchised  spirit  loudlier  sing, 

And  wear  a  bolder  front  than  that  which  now  I  wear 
Beside  the  Susquehanna  and  along  the  Delaware. 


Cl 

IF  I  could  arise  and  travel  away 

Over  the  plains  of  the  night  and  the  day, 

I  should  arrive  at  a  land  at  last 

Where  all  of  our  sins  and  sorrows  are  past 

And  we’re  done  with  the  Ten  Commandments. 

The  name  of  the  land  I  must  not  tell; 

Green  is  the  grass  and  cool  the  well: 

Virtue  is  easy  to  find  and  to  keep, 

And  the  sinner  may  lie  at  his  pleasure  and  sleep 
By  the  side  of  the  Ten  Commandments. 


386 


NEW  POEMS 


Income  and  honour,  and  glory  and  gold 
Grow  on  the  bushes  all  over  the  wold; 

And  if  ever  a  man  has  a  touch  of  remorse. 

He  eats  of  the  flower  of  the  golden  gorse, 

And  to  hell  with  the  Ten  Commandments. 

He  goes  to  church  in  his  Sunday’s  best; 

He  eats  and  drinks  with  perfect  zest; 

And  whether  he  lives  in  heaven  or  hell 
Is  more  than  you  or  I  can  tell; 

But  he’s  DONE  with  the  Ten  Commandments. 


CII 


GOOD  old  ale,  mild  or  pale, 
India  ale  and  Burton, 

Give  me  a  vat  to  swim  a  whale. 
When  far  along  the  verdant  dale 
The  far-off  spire  appears, 

The  mind  reverts  to  Burton’s  ale 
And  dreams  of  different  beers. 


CIII 


NAY,  but  I  fancy  somehow,  year  by  year 
The  hard  road  waxing  easier  to  my  feet; 
Nay,  but  I  fancy  as  the  seasons  fleet 
I  shall  grow  ever  dearer  to  my  dear. 

Hope  is  so  strong  that  it  has  conquered  fear; 

Love  follows,  crowned  and  glad  for  fear’s  defeat. 
Down  the  long  future  I  behold  us,  sweet, 

Pass,  and  grow  ever  dearer  and  more  near 


NEW  POEMS 


387 


Pass  and  go  onward  into  the  mild  land 

Where  the  blond  harvests  slumber  all  the  noon, 
x4nd  the  pale  sky  bends  downward  to  the  sea; 
Pass,  and  go  forward,  ever  hand  in  hand, 

Till  all  the  plain  be  quickened  with  the  moon, 
And  the  lit  windows  beckon  o’er  the  lea. 


CIV 


MY  wife  and  I,  in  one  romantic  cot, 

The  wrorld  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot, 
High  as  the  gods  upon  Olympus  dwell. 

Pleased  with  the  things  we  have,  and  pleased  as  well 
To  wait  in  hope  for  those  which  we  have  not. 

She  vows  in  ardour  for  a  horse  to  trot; 

I  pledge  my  votive  powers  upon  a  yacht; 

Which  shall  be  first  remembered,  who  can  tell, — 

My  wife  or  I? 

Harvests  of  flowers  o’er  all  our  garden-plot, 

She  dreams;  and  I  to  enrich  a  darker  spot, — 

My  unprovided  cellar;  both  to  swell 
Our  narrow  cottage  huge  as  a  hotel. 

That  portly  friends  may  come  and  share  our  lot — 
My  wife  and  I. 


CV 


I  dearly  love  to  drink  and  eat; 
To  drink  and  eat,  to  drink  and  sing, 
At  morning  in  the  time  of  spring. 

In  winter  honest  men  retire 


T  morning  on  the  garden  seat 


388 


NEW  POEMS 


And  sup  their  possets  by  the  fire; 

And  when  the  spring  comes  round  again,  you  see, 
The  garden  breakfast  pleases  me. 

The  morning  star  that  melts  on  high, 

The  fires  that  cleanse  the  changing  sky, 

The  dew  and  perfumes  all  declare 
It  is  the  hour  to  banish  care. 

The  air  that  smells  so  new  and  sweet, 

All  put  me  in  the  cue  to  eat, 

A  pot  at  five,  a  crust  at  four, 

At  half  past  six  a  pottle  more. 


CVI 

SMALL  is  the  trust  when  love  is  green 
In  sap  of  early  years; 

A  little  thing  steps  in  between 
And  kisses  turn  to  tears. 


A  while — and  see  how  love  be  grown 
In  loveliness  and  power ! 

A  while,  it  loves  the  sweets  alone, 
But  next  it  loves  the  sour. 

A  little  love  is  none  at  all 
That  wanders  or  that  fears; 

A  hearty  love  dwells  still  at  call 
To  kisses  or  to  tears. 


Such  then  be  mine,  my  love,  to  give 
And  such  be  yours  to  take: — 

A  faith  to  hold,  a  life  to  live, 

For  loving  kindness  sake: — 


NEW  POEMS 


389 


Should  you  be  sad,  should  you  be  gay, 
Or  should  you  prove  unkind, 

A  love  to  hold  the  growing  way 
And  keep  the  helping  mind: — 

A  love  to  turn  the  laugh  on  care 
When  wrinkled  care  appears, 

And,  with  an  equal  will,  to  share 
Your  kisses  and  your  tears. 


CVII 

KNOW  you  the  river  near  to  Grez, 
A  river  deep  and  clear? 

Among  the  lilies  all  the  way, 

That  ancient  river  runs  to-day 
From  snowy  weir  to  weir. 

Old  as  the  Rhine  of  great  renown. 

She  hurries  clear  and  fast, 

She  runs  amain  by  field  and  town 
From  south  to  north,  from  up  to  down, 
To  present  on  from  past. 

The  love  I  hold  wTas  born  by  her; 

And  now,  though  far  away. 

My  lonely  spirit  hears  the  stir 
Of  water  round  the  starling  spur 
Beside  the  bridge  at  Grez. 


390 


NEW  POEMS 


So  may  that  love  for  ever  hold 
In  life  an  equal  pace; 

So  may  that  love  grow  never  old, 

But,  clear  and  pure  and  fountain-cold, 
Go  on  from  grace  to  grace. 


CVIII 

IT’S  forth  across  the  roaring  foam,  and  on  towards  the 
west, 

It’s  many  a  lonely  league  from  home,  o’er  many  a  moun¬ 
tain  crest, 

From  where  the  dogs  of  Scotland  call  the  sheep  around 
the  fold, 

To  where  the  flags  are  flying  beside  the  Gates  of  Gold. 

Where  all  the  deep-sea  galleons  ride  that  come  to  bring 
the  corn. 

Where  falls  the  fog  at  eventide  and  blows  the  breeze  at 
morn; 

It’s  there  that  I  was  sick  and  sad,  alone  and  poor  and 
cold, 

In  yon  distressful  city  beside  the  Gates  of  Gold. 

I  slept  as  one  that  nothing  knows;  but  far  along  my  way. 
Before  the  morning  God  arose  and  planned  the  coming 
day; 

x\far  before  me  forth  he  went,  as  through  the  sands  of 
old, 

And  chose  the  friends  to  help  me  beside  the  Gates  of 
Gold. 


NEW  POEMS  391 

I  have  been  near,  I  have  been  far,  my  back’s  been  at  the 
wall 

Yet  aye  and  ever  shone  the  star  to  guide  me  through  it 
all; 

The  love  of  God,  the  help  of  man,  they  both  shall  make 
me  bold 

Against  the  gates  of  darkness  as  beside  the  Gates  of  Gold. 

CIX 

DEDICATION1 

HERE,  from  the  forelands  of  the  tideless  sea. 

Behold  and  take  my  offering  unadorned. 

In  the  Pacific  air  it  sprang;  it  grew 
Among  the  silence  of  the  Alpine  air; 

In  Scottish  heather  blossomed;  and  at  last 
By  that  unshapen  sapphire,  in  whose  face 
Spain,  Italy,  France,  Algiers,  and  Tunis  view 
Their  introverted  mountains,  came  to  fruit. 

Back  now,  my  Booklet !  on  the  diving  ship, 

And  posting  on  the  rails,  to  home  return, — 

Home,  and  the  friends  whose  honouring  name  you  bear. 


CX 


FAREWELL 


FAREWELL,  and  when  forth 

I  through  the  Golden  Gates  to  Golden  Isles 

Steer  without  smiling,  through  the  sea  of  smiles, 

Isle  upon  isle,  in  the  seas  of  the  south, 

1  On  the  fly-leaf  of  the  copy  of  The  Silverado  Squatters  sent  to  Virgil 
Williams  and  Dora  Norton  Williams,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated. 


392 


NEW  POEMS 


Isle  upon  island,  sea  upon  sea, 

Why  should  I  sail,  why  should  the  breeze? 

I  have  been  young,  and  I  have  counted  friends. 
A  hopeless  sail  I  spread,  too  late,  too  late. 

Why  should  I  from  isle  to  isle 
Sail,  a  hopeless  sailor? 

CXI 

THE  FINE  PACIFIC  ISLANDS 
(heard  in  a  public-house  at  rotherhithe) 

THE  jolly  English  Yellowboy 

Is  a  ’ansome  coin  when  new, 

The  Yankee  Double-eagle 
Is  large  enough  for  two. 

O,  these  may  do  for  seaport  towns, 

For  cities  these  may  do; 

But  the  dibbs  that  takes  the  Hislands 
Are  the  dollars  of  Peru: 

O,  the  fine  Pacific  Hislands, 

O,  the  dollars  of  Peru ! 

It’s  there  we  buy  the  cocoanuts 
Mast  ’eaded  in  the  blue; 

It’s  there  we  trap  the  lasses 
All  waiting  for  the  crew; 

It’s  there  we  buy  the  trader’s  rum 
What  bores  a  seaman  through.  .  .  . 

In  the  fine  Pacific  Hislands 
With  the  dollars  of  Peru: 

In  the  fine  Pacific  Hislands 
With  the  dollars  of  Peru ! 


NEW  POEMS 


393 


Now,  messmates,  when  my  watch  is  up, 
And  I  am  quite  broached  to, 

I’ll  give  a  tip  to  ’Ewing 
Of  the  ’ansome  thing  to  do: 

Let  ’em  just  refit  this  sailor-man 
And  launch  him  off  anew 
To  cruise  among  the  Hislands 
With  .the  dollars  of  Peru: 

In  the  fine  Pacific  Hislands 
With  the  dollars  of  Peru ! 


CXII 

TOPICAL  SONG1 
(to  the  tune  of  “old  black  joe”) 

WHEN,  where,  or  how, 

It  matters  not  a  damn; 

East,  west,  or  south, 

Mariki  or  Apaman, 

Land,  only  land,  land  me 
With  my  little  pack, 

Land  on  any  mortal  island, 

Poor  Tin2  Jack ! 

Chorus 

I’m  landing,  I’m  landing, 

Landing  with  my  little  pack. 

I  hear  your  husky  voices  calling. 

Poor  Tin  Jack ! 

1  Written  during  the  cruise  of  the  Janet  Nicholls  when  Stevenson  first 
met  Jock  Buckland,  the  original  of  “Tommy  Iladdon.” 

2  “Tin”  is  “Mr.”  in  Line  Islands. 


394 


NEW  POEMS 


Much  they  may  care 

For  the  dangers  of  my  fate. 

Martin’s  at  home 

And  the  cow-tub’s  at  the  gate. 

False  nose  on  face 

Snowy  wig  on  head  and  back. 

Oh  what  a  moving  sight  to  see  is 
Poor  Tin  Jack ! 

Bright  rolls  the  sea 

On  a  hundred  lovely  shores. 

Each’ll  do  for  me 

And  my  deteriorated  stores. 

Land,  only  land, 

Land  me  and  my  little  pack, 

And  leave  with  Billy  Jones’s  Cousin 
Poor  Tin  Jack ! 

Hear  my  last  word 

Now  when  I’m  about  to  land. 

Drink  wisdom  in 

As  we  shake  the  parting  hand. 

No  use  to  talk 

Or  to  argue  for  and  back. 

Approx-imacy  forms  the  aim  of 
Poor  Tin  Jack ! 

Long  at  your  board 

’Mid  the  quibblers  I  was  dumb. 

Quaffing  the  wine, 

Laying  on  the  little  turn. 


NEW  POEMS 


395 


Now  let  your  ship 

Square  away  along  her  track, 

The  flushed,  fantastic  quibblers  leaving 
Poor  Tin  Jack ! 


CXIII 

STUDENT  SONG 


THEY  say  that  at  the  core  of  it 
This  life  is  all  regret; 

But  wTe’ve  scarce  yet  learned  the  lore  of  it, 
We’re  only  youngsters  yet. 

We  only  ask  some  more  of  it,  some  more  of  it. 
We  only  ask  some  more  of  it 
— The  less  we’re  like  to  get ! 


Though  ill  may  be  the  close  of  it, 

It’s  fair  enough  at  morn; 

And  the  manner  to  dispose  of  it 

Is  just  to  pluck  the  rose  of  it 
When  first  the  rose  is  born. 

Is  first  to  pluck  the  rose  of  it,  the  rose  of  it,  the  rose  of  it, 
Is  just  to  pluck  the  rose  of  it, 

The  de’il  may  take  the  thorn ! 

The  opinions  of  the  old  of  it 
Depict  a  doleful  land; 

For  the  guide-books  that  are  sold  of  it, 

The  ill  that  we  are  told  of  it, 

Would  make  Columbus  stand. 


396 


NEW  POEMS 


But  come  let’s  take  a  hold  of  it,  a  hold  of  it,  a  hold  of  it, 
But  come  let’s  take  a  hold  of  it 
With  Alexander’s  hand. 

When  sages  call  the  roll  of  it 
How  sad  their  looks  appear ! 

But  there’s  fire  in  every  coal  of  it 
And  hope  is  in  the  soul  of  it 
And  never  a  word  of  fear. 

So  love  we  then  the  whole  of  it,  the  whole  of  it,  the  whole 
of  it, 

So  love  we  then  the  whole  of  it 
For  as  long  as  we  are  here. 


CXIV 

AN  ENGLISH  BREEZE 


UP  with  the  sun,  the  breeze  arose 
Across  the  talking  corn  she  goes. 
And  smooth  she  rustles  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  voiceful  countryside. 


Through  all  the  land  her  tale  she  tells; 
She  spins,  she  tosses,  she  compels 
The  kites,  the  clouds,  the  windmill  sails, 
And  all  the  trees  in  all  the  dales. 


God  calls  us,  and  the  day  prepares 
With  nimble,  gay,  and  gracious  airs: 
And  from  Penzance  to  Maidenhead 
The  roads  last  night,  He  watered. 


NEW  POEMS 


S97 


God  calls  us  from  inglorious  ease, 

Forth  and  to  travel  with  the  breeze 
While,  swift  and  singing,  smooth  and  strong. 
She  gallops  by  the  fields  along. 


cxv 

TO  MISS  CORNISH 


THEY  tell  me,  lady,  that  to-day 

On  that  unknown  Australian  strand — 
Some  time  ago,  so  far  away — 

Another  lady  joined  the  band. 


She  joined  the  company  of  those 
Lovelily  dowered,  nobly  planned, 

Who,  smiling,  still  forgive  their  foes 

And  keep  their  friends  in  close  command. 


She,  lady,  as  I  learn,  was  one 
Among  the  many  rarely  good; 

And  destined  still  to  be  a  sun 

Through  every  dark  and  rainy  mood: — 


She,  as  they  told  me,  far  had  come, 

By  sea  and  land,  o’er  many  a  rood: — 
Admired  by  all,  beloved  by  some, 

She  was  yourself,  I  understood. 


But,  compliment  apart  and  free 
From  all  constraint  of  verses,  may 
Goodness  and  honour,  grace  and  glee, 
Attend  you  ever  on  your  way — 


398 


NEW  POEMS 


Up  to  the  measure  of  your  will. 
Beyond  all  power  of  mine  to  say — 
As  she  and  I  desire  you  still. 

Miss  Cornish,  on  your  natal  day. 


CXVI 

TO  ROSABELLE 

WHEN  my  young  lady  has  grown  great  and  staid, 
And  in  long  raiment  wondrously  arrayed, 

She  may  take  pleasure  with  a  smile  to  know 
How  she  delighted  men-folk  long  ago. 

For  her  long  after,  then,  this  tale  I  tell 
Of  the  two  fans  and  fairy  Rosabelle. 

Hot  was  the  day;  her  weary  sire  and  I 
Sat  in  our  chairs  companionably  nigh, 

Each  with  a  headache  sat  her  sire  and  I. 

Instant  the  hostess  waked:  she  viewed  the  scene, 
Divined  the  giants’  languor  by  their  mien, 

And  .  .  .  with  hospitable  care 

Tackles  at  once  an  Atlantean  chair. 

Her  pigmy  stature  scarce  attained  the  seat — 

She  dragged  it  where  she  would,  and  with  her  feet 
Surmounted;  thence,  a  Phaeton  launched,  she  crowned 
The  vast  plateau  of  the  piano,  found 
And  culled  a  pair  of  fans;  wherewith  equipped, 

Our  mountaineer  back  to  the  level  slipped; 


NEW  POEMS 


399 


And  being  landed,  with  considerate  eyes, 

Betwixt  her  elders  dealt  her  double  prize; 

The  small  to  me,  the  greater  to  her  sire. 

As  painters  now  advance  and  now  retire 
Before  the  growing  canvas,  and  anon 
Once  more  approach  and  put  the  climax  on: 

So  she  a  while  withdrew,  her  piece  she  viewed — 
For  half  a  moment  half  supposed  it  good — 

Spied  her  mistake,  nor  sooner  spied  than  ran 
To  remedy;  and  with  the  greater  fan, 

In  gracious  better  thought,  equipped  the  guest. 

From  ill  to  well,  from  better  on  to  best, 

Arts  move;  the  homely,  like  the  plastic  kind; 

And  high  ideals  fired  that  infant  mind. 

Once  more  she  backed,  once  more  a  space  apart 
Considered  and  reviewed  her  work  of  art: 

Doubtful  at  first,  and  gravely  yet  a  while; 

Till  all  her  features  blossomed  in  a  smile. 

And  the  child,  waking  at  the  call  of  bliss, 

To  each  she  ran,  and  took  and  gave  a  kiss. 

CXVII 

AS  in  their  flight  the  birds  of  song 

Halt  here  and  there  in  sweet  and  sunny  dales 
But  halt  not  overlong; 

The  time  one  rural  song  to  sing 

They  pause;  then  following  bounteous  gales 

Steer  forward  on  the  wing: 

Sun-servers  they,  from  first  to  last, 

Upon  the  sun  they  await 
To  ride  the  sailing  blast. 


400 


NEW  POEMS 


So  he  a  while  in  our  contested  state, 

A  while  abode,  not  longer — for  his  Sun — 
Mother  we  say,  no  tenderer  name  we  know — 
With  whose  diviner  glow 
His  early  days  had  shone. 

Now  to  withdraw  her  radiance  had  begun. 

Or  lest  a  wrong  I  say,  not  she  withdrew, 

But  the  loud  stream  of  men  day  after  day 
And  great  dust  columns  of  the  common  way 
Between  them  grew  and  grew: 

And  he  and  she  for  evermore  might  yearn. 

But  to  the  spring  the  rivulets  not  return 
Nor  to  the  bosom  comes  the  child  again. 

And  he,  (O  may  we  fancy  so !) 

He,  feeling  time  for  ever  flow 
And  flowing  bear  him  forth  and  far  away 
From  that  dear  ingle  where  his  life  began 
And  all  his  treasure  lay — 

He,  waxing  into  man, 

And  ever  farther,  ever  closer  wound 
In  this  obstreperous  world’s  ignoble  round, 
From  that  poor  prospect  turned  his  face  away. 


CXVIII 

PRAYER 

I  ASK  good  things  that  I  detest, 

With  speeches  fair; 

Heed  not,  I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  breast, 
But  hear  my  prayer. 


NEW  POEMS 


401 


I  say  ill  things  I  would  not  say — 

Things  unaware: 

Regard  my  breast,  Lord,  in  Thy  day. 

And  not  my  prayer. 

My  heart  is  evil  in  Thy  sight: 

My  good  thoughts  flee: 

O  Lord,  I  cannot  wish  aright — 

Wish  Thou  for  me. 

O  bend  my  words  and  acts  to  Thee, 

However  ill, 

That  I,  whatever  I  say  or  be, 

May  serve  Thee  still. 

O  let  my  thoughts  abide  in  Thee 
Lest  I  should  fall: 

Show  me  Thyself  in  all  I  see, 

Thou  Lord  of  all. 

CXIX 

THE  PIPER 

AGAIN  I  hear  you  piping,  for  I  know  the  tune  so 
^  well,— 

You  rouse  the  heart  to  wander  and  be  free, 

Tho’  where  you  learned  your  music,  not  the  God  of  song 
can  tell 

For  you  pipe  the  open  highway  and  the  sea. 

O  piper,  lightly  footing,  lightly  piping  on  your  way, 

Tho’  your  music  thrills  and  pierces  far  and  near, 

I  tell  you  you  had  better  pipe  to  some  one  else  to-day. 
For  you  cannot  pipe  my  fancy  from  my  dear. 


402  NEW  POE  M  S 

You  sound  the  note  of  travel  through  the  hamlet  and  the 
town ; 

You  would  lure  the  holy  angels  from  on  high; 

And  not  a  man  can  hear  you,  but  he  throws  the  hammer 
down 

And  is  off  to  see  the  countries  ere  he  die. 

But  now  no  more  I  wander,  now  unchanging  here  I  stay; 

By  my  love,  you  find  me  safely  sitting  here: 

And  pipe  you  ne’er  so  sweetly,  till  you  pipe  the  hills  away, 
You  can  never  pipe  my  fancy  from  my  dear. 


CXX 

EPISTLE  TO  ALBERT 
DEW-SMITH 

FIGURE  me  to  yourself,  I  pray — 
A  man  of  my  peculiar  cut — 
Apart  from  dancing  and  deray,1 
Into  an  Alpine  valley  shut; 


Shut  in  a  kind  of  damned  Hotel, 
Discountenanced  by  God  and  man; 

The  food  ? — Sir,  you  would  do  as  well 
To  cram  your  belly  full  of  bran. 

1  “The  whole  front  of  the  house  was  lighted,  and  there  were  pipes 
and  fiddles,  and  as  much  dancing  and  deray  within  as  used  to  be  in  Sir 
Robert’s  house  at  Pace  and  Yule,  and  such  high  seasons.” — See  Wander¬ 
ing  Willie’s  Tale  in  Redgauntlet,  borrowed  perhaps  from  Christ’s  Kirk 
of  the  Green. 


NEW  POEMS 


403 

The  company?  Alas,  the  day 

That  I  should  dwell  with  such  a  crew. 

With  devil  anything  to  say, 

Nor  any  one  to  say  it  to ! 

The  place?  Although  they  call  it  Platz, 

I  will  be  bold  and  state  my  view; 

It’s  not  a  place  at  all — and  that’s 
The  bottom  verity,  my  Dew. 

There  are,  as  I  will  not  deny, 

Innumerable  inns;  a  road; 

Several  Alps  indifferent  high; 

The  snow’s  inviolable  abode; 

Eleven  English  parsons,  all 
Entirely  inoffensive;  four 
True  human  beings — what  I  call 
Human — the  deuce  a  cipher  more; 

A  climate  of  surprising  worth; 

Innumerable  dogs  that  bark; 

Some  air,  some  weather,  and  some  earth; 

A  native  race — God  save  the  mark  ! — 

A  race  that  works,  yet  cannot  work, 

Yodels,  but  cannot  yodel  right, 

Such  as,  unhelp’d,  with  rusty  dirk, 

I  vow  that  I  could  wholly  smite. 


404 


NEW  POEMS 


A  river  that  from  morn  to  night 
Down  all  the  valley  plays  the  fool; 

Not  once  she  pauses  in  her  flight, 

Nor  knows  the  comfort  of  a  pool; 

But  still  keeps  up,  by  straight  or  bend, 
The  self-same  pace  she  hath  begun — 

Still  hurry,  hurry,  to  the  end — 

Good  God,  is  that  the  way  to  run  ? 

If  I  a  river  were,  I  hope 
That  I  should  better  realise 

The  opportunities  and  scope 
Of  that  romantic  enterprise. 

I  should  not  ape  the  merely  strange. 
But  aim  besides  at  the  divine; 

And  continuity  and  change 

I  still  should  labour  to  combine. 

Here  should  I  gallop  down  the  race, 
Here  charge  the  sterling  like  a  bull; 

There,  as  a  man  might  wipe  his  face, 
Lie,  pleased  and  panting,  in  a  pool. 

But  what,  my  Dew,  in  idle  mood, 

What  prate  I,  minding  not  my  debt  ? 

What  do  I  talk  of  bad  or  good  ? 

The  best  is  still  a  cigarette. 


NEW  POEMS 


405 


Me  whether  evil  fate  assault, 

Or  smiling  providences  crown — 
Whether  on  high  the  eternal  vault 

Be  blue,  or  crash  with  thunder  down — 

I  judge  the  best,  whate’er  befall, 

Is  still  to  sit  on  one’s  behind, 

And,  having  duly  moistened  all, 

Smoke  with  an  unperturbed  mind. 


CXXI 


OF  Schooners,  Islands,  and  Maroons, 
And  Buccaneers  and  Buried  Gold, 
And  Torches  red  and  rising  moons, 

If  all  the  old  romance  retold 
Exactly  in  the  ancient  way, 

Can  please,  as  me  they  pleased  of  old. 
The  wiser  youngster  of  to-day — 

So  be  it,  and  fall  on !  If  not, — 

If  all  the  boys  on  better  things 
Have  set  their  spirits  and  forgot — 

So  be  it,  and  fall  on !  If  not — 

If  all  the  boys  on  solid  food 
Have  set  their  fancies,  and  forgot 
Kingston  and  Ballantyne  the  brave 
And  Cooper  of  the  land  and  wave, 

So  be  it  also;  and  may  I 
And  my  late-born  piratic  brood 
Unread  beside  the  ancients  lie ! 

So  be  it  and  fall  on !  If  not, — 

If  studied  youth  no  longer  crave, — 


40G 


NEW  POEMS 


Their  ancients'  appetites  forgot, — 
Kingston  and  Ballantyne  the  brave. 
For  Cooper  of  the  sea  and  wood — 

So  be  it  also;  and  may  I 
And  all  my  pirates  share  the  grave 
Where  these  and  their  creations  lie. 


CXXII 

TO  MRS.  MACMARLAND 


/N  Schnee  der  Alpen — so  it  runs 

To  those  divine  accords — and  here 
We  dwell  in  Alpine  snows  and  suns, 

A  motley  crew,  for  half  the  year: 

A  motley  crew,  we  dwell  to  taste — 

A  shivering  band  in  hope  and  fear — 
That  sun  upon  the  snowy  waste, 

That  Alpine  aether  cold  and  clear. 


Up  from  the  laboured  plains,  and  up 
From  low  sea-lands,  we  arise 
To  drink  of  that  diviner  cup 
The  rarer  air,  the  clearer  skies; 

For,  as  the  great,  old,  godly  King 
From  mankind’s  turbid  valley  cries, 
So  all  we  mountain-lovers  sing: 

I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes. 


The  bells  that  ring,  the  peaks  that  climb, 
The  frozen  snows  unbroken  curd 
Might  yet  revindicate  in  rhyme 


NEW  POEMS 


407 


The  pauseless  stream,  the  absent  bird. 

In  vain — for  to  the  deeps  of  life 

You,  lady,  you  my  heart  have  stirred; 

And  since  you  say  you  love  my  wife, 

Be  sure  I  love  you  for  the  word. 

Of  kindness,  here  I  nothing  say — 

Such  loveless  kindnesses  there  are 
In  that  grimacing,  common  way 
That  old,  unhonoured  social  war. 

Love  but  my  dog  and  love  my  love, 

Adore  with  me  a  common  star — 

I  value  not  the  rest  above 
The  ashes  of  a  bad  cigar. 

CXXIII 

YES,  I  remember,  and  still  remember  wailing 
Wind  in  the  clouds  and  rainy  sea-horizon, 
Empty  and  lit  with  a  low  nocturnal  glimmer; 
How  in  the  strong,  deep-plunging,  transatlantic 
Emigrant  ship  we  sang  our  songs  in  chorus. 
Piping,  the  gull  flew  by,  the  roaring  billows 
Jammed  and  resounded  round  the  mighty  vessel; 
Infinite  uproar,  endless  contradiction; 

Yet  over  all  our  chorus  rose,  reminding 
Wanderers  here  at  sea  of  unforgotten 
Homes  and  the  undying,  old,  memorial  loves. 

Here  in  the  strong,  deep-plunging  transatlantic 
Emigrant  ship  the  waves  arose  gigantic; 

Piping  the  gull  flew  by,  the  roaring  billows 


408 


NEW  POEMS 


Rose  and  appeared  before  the  eye  like  pillows. 
Piping  the  gull  flew  by,  the  roaring  waves 
Rose  and  appeared  from  subter-ocean  caves, 
And  as  across  the  smoothing  sea  we  roam, 

Still  and  anon  we  sang  our  songs  of  home. 


Brown  in  his  haste  demanded  this  from  me; 
I  in  my  leisure  made  the  present  verse. 


CXXIV 

TALES  OF  ARABIA 


YES,  friend,  I  own  these  tales  of  Arabia 

Smile  not,  as  smiled  their  flawless  originals 
Age-old  but  yet  untamed,  for  ages 
Pass  and  the  magic  is  undiminished. 


Thus,  friend,  the  tales  of  the  old  Camaralzaman, 
Ayoub,  the  Slave  of  Love,  or  the  Calendars, 
Blind-eyed  and  ill-starred  royal  scions, 

Charm  us  in  age  as  they  charmed  in  childhood. 


Fair  ones,  beyond  all  numerability, 

Beam  from  the  palace,  beam  on  humanity, 
Bright-eyed,  in  truth,  yet  soul-less  houris 
Offering  pleasure  and  only  pleasure. 

Thus  they,  the  venal  Muses  Arabian, 
Unlike,  indeed,  to  nobler  divinities, 

Greek  Gods  or  old  time-honoured  muses 
Easily  proffer  unloved  caresses. 


NEW  POEMS 


409 


Lost,  lost,  the  man  who  mindeth  the  minstrelsy; 
Since  still,  in  sandy,  glittering  pleasances, 

Cold,  stony  fruits,  gem-like  but  quite  in- 
Edible,  flatter  and  wholly  starve  him. 


cxxv 

BEHOLD,  as  goblins  dark  of  mien, 

And  portly  tyrants  dyed  with  crime 
Change,  in  the  transformation  scene, 

At  Christmas,  in  the  pantomime, 

Instanter,  at  the  prompter’s  cough, 

The  fairy  bonnets  them,  and  they 
Throw  their  abhorred  carbuncles  off 
And  blossom  like  the  flowers  in  May. 

— So  mankind,  to  angelic  eyes, 

So,  through  the  scenes  of  life  below. 

In  life’s  ironical  disguise, 

A  travesty  of  man,  ye  go: 

But  fear  not:  ere  the  curtain  fall, 

Death  in  the  transformation  scene, 

Steps  forward  from  her  pedestal, 

Apparent,  as  the  fairy  Queen; 

And  coming,  frees  you  in  a  trice 

From  all  your  lendings — lust  of  fame, 
Ungainly  virtue,  ugly  vice, 

Terror  and  tyranny  and  shame. 


410 


NEW  POEMS 


So  each,  at  last  himself,  for  good 
In  that  dear  country  lays  him  down, 
At  last  beloved  and  understood 
And  pure  in  feature  and  renown. 


CXXVI 


STILL  I  love  to  rhyme,  and  still  more,  rhyming,  to 
wander 

Far  from  the  commoner  way; 

Old  time  trills  and  falls  by  the  brook-side  still  do  I  ponder. 
Dreaming  to-morrow  to-day. 


Come  here,  come,  revive  me,  Sun-God,  teach  me,  Apollo, 
Measures  descanted  before; 

Since  I  ancient  verses  seek,  I  emulous  follow 
Prints  in  the  marbles  of  yore. 


Still  strange,  strange,  they  sound  in  old-young  raiment 
invested, 

Songs  for  the  brain  to  beget — 

Young  song-birds  elate  to  grave  old  temples  benested 
Piping  and  chirruping  yet. 


Thoughts?  no  thought  has  yet  unskilled  attempted  to 
flutter 

Trammelled  so  vilely  in  verse; 

He  who  writes  but  aims  at  fame  and  his  bread  and  his 
butter, 

Won  with  a  groan  and  a  curse. 


NEW  POEMS 


411 


CXXVII 

IONG  time  I  lay  in  little  ease 

Where,  paced  by  the  Turanian, 
Marseilles,  the  many-masted,  sees 
The  blue  Mediterranean. 

Now  songful  in  the  hour  of  sport, 
Now  riotous  for  wages, 

She  camps  around  her  ancient  port, 
An  ancient  of  the  ages. 

Algerian  airs  through  all  the  place 
Unconquerably  sally; 

Incomparable  women  pace 
The  shadows  of  the  alley. 

And  high  o’er  dock  and  graving  yard 
And  where  the  sky  is  paler, 

The  Golden  Virgin  of  the  Guard 
Shines,  beckoning  the  sailor. 

She  hears  the  city  roar  on  high, 

Thief,  prostitute,  and  banker; 

She  sees  the  masted  vessels  lie 
Immovably  at  anchor. 

She  sees  the  snowy  islets  dot 
The  sea’s  immortal  azure, 

And  If,  that  castellated  spot, 

Tower,  turret  and  embrasure. 


412 


NEW  POEMS 


Here  Dantes1  pined;  and  here  to-day 
Behold  me  his  successor: 

For  here  imprisoned  long  I  lay 
In  pledge  for  a  professor. 

CXXVIII 

FLOWER  god,  god  of  the  Spring,  beautiful,  bountiful, 
Cold-dyed  shield  in  the  sky,  lover  of  versicles, 

Here  I  wander  in  April, 

Cold,  grey-headed;  and  still  to  my 
Heart,  Spring  comes  with  a  bound,  Spring  the  deliverer. 
Spring,  song-leader  in  woods,  chorally  resonant, 

Spring,  flower  planter  in  meadows, 

Child  conductor  in  willowy 
Fields  deep  dotted  with  bloom,  daisies  and  crocuses: 
Here  that  child  from  his  heart  drinks  of  eternity: 

O  child,  happy  are  children ! 

She  still  smiles  on  their  innocence, 

She,  dear  mother  in  God,  fostering  violets. 

Fills  earth  full  of  her  scents,  voices  and  violins: 

Thus  one  cunning  in  music 
Wakes  old  chords  in  the  memory: 

Thus  fair  earth  in  the  Spring  leads  her  performances. 
One  more  touch  of  the  bow,  smell  of  the  virginal 
Green — one  more,  and  my  bosom 
Feels  new  life  with  an  ecstasy. 

1  Dantes  and  Chateau  d'lf  refer  to  the  Monte  Crisio  of  the  elder  Dumas. 


NEW  POEMS 


413 


CXXIX 

COME,  my  beloved,  hear  from  me 
Tales  of  the  cods  or  open  sea. 

Let  our  aspiring  fancy  rise 
A  wren’s  flight  higher  toward  the  skies; 

Or  far  from  cities,  brown  and  bare, 

Play  at  the  least  in  open  air. 

In  all  the  tales  men  hear  or  tell 
Still  let  the  unfathomed  ocean  swell, 

Or  shallower  forest  sound  abroad 
Below  the  lonely  stars  of  God; 

In  all,  let  something  still  be  done, 

Still  in  a  corner  shine  the  sun, 

Slim-ankled  maids  be  fleet  of  foot 
Nor  man  disown  the  rural  flute. 

Still  let  the  hero  from  the  start 
In  honest  sweat  and  beats  of  heart 
Push  on  along  the  untrodden  road 
For  some  inviolate  abode. 

Still,  O  beloved,  let  me  hear 

The  great  bell  beating  far  and  near — 

The  odd,  unknown,  enchanted  gong 
That  on  the  road  hales  men  along, 

That  from  the  mountain  calls  afar 
That  lures  the  vessel  from  a  star, 

And  with  a  still,  aerial  sound 
Makes  all  the  earth  enchanted  ground. 

Love,  and  the  love  of  life  and  act 

Dance,  live,  and  sing  through  all  our  furrowed  tract; 

Till  the  great  God  enamoured  gives, 

To  him  who  reads,  to  him  who  lives. 


414 


NEW  POEMS 


That  rare  and  fair  romantic  strain 
That  whoso  hears  must  hear  again. 

cxxx 

SINCE  years  ago  for  evermore 
My  cedar  ship  I  drew  to  shore; 

And  to  the  road  and  riverbed 
And  the  green,  nodding  reeds,  I  said 
Mine  ignorant  and  last  farewell: 

Now  with  content  at  home  I  dwell, 

And  now  divide  my  sluggish  life 
Betwixt  my  verses  and  my  wife: 

In  vain;  for  when  the  lamp  is  lit 
And  by  the  laughing  fire  I  sit, 

Still  with  the  tattered  atlas  spread 
Interminable  roads  I  tread. 

CXXXI 

FOR  RICHMOND’S  GARDEN  WALL 

WHEN  Thomas1  set  this  tablet  here, 

Time  laughed  at  the  vain  chanticleer; 
And  ere  the  moss  had  dimmed  the  stone, 
Time  had  defaced  that  garrison. 

Now  I  in  turn  keep  watch  and  ward 
In  my  red  house,  in  my  walled  yard 
Of  sunflowers,  sitting  here  at  ease 
With  friends  and  my  bright  canvases. 

But  hark,  and  you  may  hear  quite  plain 
Time’s  chuckled  laughter  in  the  lane. 

1  Identity  not  known. 


NEW  POEMS 


415 


CXXXII 


HERE  LIES  EROTION 


MOTHER  and  sire,  to  you  do  I  commend 
Tiny  Erotion,  who  must  now  descend, 

A  child,  among  the  shadows,  and  appear 
Before  hell’s  bandog  and  hell’s  gondolier. 

Of  six  hoar  winters  she  had  felt  the  cold, 

But  lacked  six  days  of  being  six  years  old. 

Now  she  must  come,  all  playful,  to  that  place 
Where  the  great  ancients  sit  with  reverend  face; 
Now  lisping,  as  she  used,  of  whence  she  came, 
Perchance  she  names  and  stumbles  at  my  name. 
O’er  these  so  fragile  bones,  let  there  be  laid 
A  plaything  for  a  turf;  and  for  that  maid 
That  ran  so  lightly  footed  in  her  mirth 
Upon  thy  breast — lie  lightly,  mother  earth ! 


CXXXIIX 


TO  PRIAPUS 


10,  in  thy  green  enclosure  here, 

Let  not  the  ugly  or  the  old  appear, 
Divine  Priapus;  but  with  leaping  tread 
The  schoolboy,  and  the  golden  head 
Of  the  slim  filly  twelve  years  old — 

Let  these  to  enter  and  to  steal  be  bold ! 


416 


NEW  POEMS 


(XXXIV 


mon,  it’s  true;  I’m  no’  that  weel, 


Close  prisoner  to  my  lord  the  de’il; 
As  weak’s  a  bit  o’  aipple  peel. 

Or  ingan  parin’, 

Packed  like  a  codfish  in  a  creel, 

I  lie  disparin’. 

Mon,  it’s  a  cur-ous  thing  to  think 
How  bodies  sleep  and  eat  and  drink; 

I’m  no’  that  weel,  but  micht  be  waur 
An’  doubt  na  mony  bodies  are. 


cxxxv 


HAIL,1  guest,  and  enter  freely !  All  you  see 
Is,  for  your  momentary  visit,  yours;  and  we 
Who  welcome  you,  are  but  the  guests  of  God 
And  know  not  our  departure. 


CXXXVI 


0,  now,  my  guest,  if  aught  amiss  were  said 


*  Forgive  it  and  dismiss  it  from  your  head. 

For  me,  for  you,  for  all,  to  close  the  date, 

Pass  now  the  ev’ning  sponge  across  the  slate; 

And  to  that  spirit  of  forgiveness  keep, 

Which  is  the  parent  and  the  child  of  sleep. 

1  These  verses  and  the  next  are  proposed  inscriptions  for  Stevenson’s 
new  house,  “Skerryvore,”  presented  to  him  and  his  wife  by  his  father. 


NEW  POEMS 


417 


CXXXVII 


SO  live,  so  love,  so  use  that  fragile  hour, 

That  when  the  dark  hand  of  the  shining  power 
Shall  one  from  other,  wife  or  husband,  take, 

The  poor  survivor  may  not  weep  and  wake. 


CXXXVIII 

BEFORE  this  little  gift  was  come, 

The  little  owner  had  made  haste  for  home; 
And  from  the  door  of  where  the  eternal  dwell. 
Looked  back  on  human  things  and  smiled  farewell. 
O  may  this  grief  remain  the  only  one ! 

O  may  your  house  be  still  a  garrison 

Of  smiling  children,  and  for  evermore 

The  tune  of  little  feet  be  heard  along  the  floor ! 


CXXXIX 


GO,  little  book — the  ancient  phrase 

And  still  the  daintiest — go  your  ways, 
My  Otto,  over  sea  and  land. 

Till  you  shall  come  to  Nelly’s1  hand. 


How  shall  I  your  Nelly  know? 

By  her  blue  eye  and  her  black  brow, 

By  her  fierce  and  slender  look, 

And  by  her  goodness,  little  book ! 

1  To  Nelly  Sanchez,  his  sister-in-law,  Stevenson  dedicated  Prince  Otto. 
He  sent  a  copy  of  the  book  to  her  and  with  it  these  verses. 


418 


NEW  POEMS 


What  shall  I  say  when  1  come  there? 

You  shall  speak  her  soft  and  fair: 

See — you  shall  say — the  love  they  send 
To  greet  their  unforgotten  friend ! 

Giant  Adulpho  you  shall  sing 
The  next,  and  then  the  cradled  king: 

And  the  four  corners  of  the  roof 
Then  kindly  bless;  and  to  your  perch  aloof, 
Where  Balzac  all  in  yellow  dressed 
And  the  dear  Webster  of  the  west 
Encircle  the  prepotent  throne 
Of  Shakespeare  and  of  Calderon, 

Shall  climb  an  upstart. 

There,  with  these. 
You  shall  give  ear  to  breaking  seas 
And  windmills  turning  in  the  breeze, 

A  distant  undetermined  din 
Without;  and  you  shall  hear  within 
The  blazing  and  the  bickering  logs, 

The  crowing  child,  the  yawning  dogs, 

And  ever  agile,  high  and  low, 

Our  Nelly  going  to  and  fro. 

There  shall  you  all  silent  sit, 

Till,  when  perchance  the  lamp  is  lit 
And  the  day’s  labour  done,  she  takes 
Poor  Otto  down,  and,  warming  for  our  sakes, 
Perchance  beholds,  alive  and  near, 

Our  distant  faces  reappear. 


NEW  POEMS 


419 


CXL 


MY  love  was  warm;  for  that  I  crossed 
The  mountains  and  the  sea, 

Nor  counted  that  endeavour  lost 
That  gave  my  love  to  me. 


If  that  indeed  were  love  at  all 
As  still,  my  love,  I  trow, 

By  what  dear  name  am  I  to  call 
The  bond  that  holds  me  now? 


CXLI 


COME,  my  little  children,  here  are  songs  for  you; 

Some  are  short  and  some  are  long  and  all,  all  are 
new. 

You  must  learn  to  sing  them  very  small  and  clear, 

Very  true  to  time  and  tune  and  pleasing  to  the  ear. 


Mark  the  note  that  rises,  mark  the  notes  that  fall. 
Mark  the  time  when  broken,  and  the  swing  of  it  all. 
So  when  night  is  come  and  you  have  gone  to  bed, 

All  the  songs  you  love  to  sing  shall  echo  in  your  head. 


CXLII 


HOME  from  the  daisied  meadows,  where  you  linger 
vet. 

t/ 

Home,  golden-headed  playmate,  ere  the  sun  is  set, 

For  the  dews  are  falling  fast 
And  the  night  has  come  at  last. 


420 


NEW  POEMS 


Home  with  you,  home  and  lay  your  little  head  at  rest, 
Safe,  safe  my  little  darling,  on  your  mother’s  breast. 
Lullaby,  darling,  your  mother  is  watching  you,  she’ll  be 
your  guardian  and  shield, 

Lullaby,  slumber,  my  darling,  till  morning  be  bright  upon 
mountain  and  field. 

Long,  long  the  shadows  fall. 

All  white  and  smooth  at  home  your  little  bed  is  laid. 

All  round  your  head  be  angels. 


CXLIII 


EARLY  in  the  morning  I  hear  on  your  piano 

You  (at  least  I  guess  it’s  you)  proceed  to  learn  to 
play. 

Worthy  little  minds  should  take  and  tackle  their  piano, 
While  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  morning  of  the  day. 


CXLIV 


FAIR  Isle  at  Sea1 — thy  lovely  name 
Soft  in  my  ear  like  music  came. 
That  sea  I  loved,  and  once  or  twice 
I  touched  at  isles  of  Paradise. 


CXLV 

LOUD  and  low  in  the  chimney 
The  squalls  suspire; 

Then  like  an  answer  dwindles 
And  glows  the  fire. 

And  the  chamber  reddens  and  darkens 


1  Samoa. 


NEW  POEMS 


421 


In  time  like  taken  breath. 

Nearby  the  sounding  chimney 
The  youth  apart 
Hearkens  with  changing  colour 
And  leaping  heart, 

And  hears  in  the  coil  of  the  tempest 
The  voice  of  love  and  death.1 
Love  on  high  in  the  flute-like 
And  tender  notes 
Sounds  as  from  April  meadows 
And  hillside  cotes; 

But  the  deep  wood  wind  in  the  chimney 
Utters  the  slogan  of  death. 


CXLVI 


1 


I  LOVE  to  be  warm  by  the  red  fireside, 
I  love  to  be  wet  with  rain; 

I  love  to  be  welcome  at  lamplit  doors, 
And  leave  the  doors  again. 


T  last,  she  comes,  O  never  more 


-L  A.  In  this  dear  patience  of  my  pain 
To  leave  me  lonely  as  before 
Or  leave  my  soul  alone  again. 

1  The  war  among  the  Samoa  tribes. 


NEW  POEMS 
CXLVII 


422 

MINE  eyes  were  swift  to  know  thee,1  and  my  heart 
As  swift  to  love.  I  did  become  at  once 
Thine  wholly,  thine  unalterably,  thine 
In  honourable  service,  pure  intent, 

Steadfast  excess  of  love  and  laughing  care: 

And  as  I  was,  so  am,  and  so  shall  be. 

I  knew  thee  helpful,  knew  thee  true,  knew  thee 

And  Pity  bedfellows:  I  heard  thy  talk 

With  answerable  throbbings.  On  the  stream, 

Deep,  swift,  and  clear,  the  lilies  floated;  fish 
Through  the  shadows  ran.  There,  thou  and  I 
Read  Kindness  in  our  eyes  and  closed  the  match. 

CXLVIII 

FIXED  is  the  doom;  and  to  the  last  of  years 

Teacher  and  taught,  friend,  lover,  parent,  child. 
Each  walks,  though  near,  yet  separate;  each  beholds 
His  dear  ones  shine  beyond  him  like  the  stars. 

We  also,  love,  for  ever  dwell  apart; 

With  cries  approach,  with  cries  behold  the  gulf, 

The  Unvaulted:  as  two  great  eagles  that  do  wheel  in  air 
Above  a  mountain,  and  with  screams  confer, 

Far  heard  athwart  the  cedars. 

Yet  the  years 

Shall  bring  us  ever  nearer;  day  by  day 
Endearing,  week  by  week,  till  death  at  last 
Dissolve  that  long  divorce.  By  faith  we  love, 

Not  knowledge;  and  by  faith  though  far  removed 
Dwell  as  in  perfect  nearness,  heart  to  heart. 

1  His  wife. 


NEW  POEMS 


423 


We  but  excuse 

Those  things  we  mereiy  are;  and  to  our  souls 
A  brave  deception  cherish. 

So  from  unhappy  war  a  man  returns 
Unfearing,  or  the  seaman  from  the  deep; 

So  from  cool  night  and  woodlands,  to  a  feast 
May  some  one  enter,  and  still  breathe  of  dewrs, 
And  in  her  eyes  still  wear  the  dusky  night. 


CXLIX 

MEN  are  Heaven’s  piers;  they  evermore 
Unwearying  bear  the  skyey  floor: 
Man’s  theatre  they  bear  with  ease, 
Unfrowning  caryatides 
I,  for  my  wife,  the  sun  uphold 
Or,  dozing,  strike  the  seasons  cold. 

She,  on  her  side,  in  fairy-wise 
Deals  in  diviner  mysteries, 

By  spells  to  make  the  fuel  burn 
And  keep  the  parlour  warm,  to  turn 
Water  to  wine,  and  stones  to  bread, 

By  her  unconquered  hero-head. 

A  naked  Adam,  naked  Eve, 

Alone  the  primal  bower  we  weave; 
Sequestered  in  the  seas  of  life, 

A  Crusoe  couple,  man  and  wife. 

With  all  our  good,  wdth  all  our  will 
Our  unfrequented  isle  we  fill; 

And  victor  in  day’s  petty  wars, 

Each  for  the  other  lights  the  stars. 

Come  then,  my  Eve,  and  to  and  fro 


424 


NEW  POEMS 


Let  us  about  our  garden  go; 

And  grateful-hearted,  hand  in  hand, 

Revisit  all  our  tillage  land 
And  marvel  at  our  strange  estate 
For  hooded  ruin  at  the  gate 
Sits  watchful,  and  the  angels  fear 
To  see  us  tread  so  boldly  here. 

Meanwhile,  my  Eve,  with  flowers  and  grass, 
Our  perishable  days  we  pass; 

Far  more  the  thorn  observe — and  see 
How  our  enormous  sins  go  free — 

Nor  less  admire,  beside  the  rose, 

How  far  a  little  virtue  goes. 

CL 

SPRING  CAROL 

WHEN  loud  by  landside  streamlets  gush, 

And  clear  in  the  greenwood  quires  the  thrush, 
With  sun  on  the  meadows 
And  songs  in  the  shadows, 

Comes  again  to  me 

The  gift  of  the  tongues  of  the  lea, 

The  gift  of  the  tongues  of  meadows. 

Straightway  my  olden  heart  returns 
And  dances  with  the  dancing  burns, 

It  sings  with  the  sparrows; 

To  the  rain  and  the  (grimy)  barrows 
Sings  my  heart  aloud — 

To  the  silver  bellied  cloud, 

To  the  silver  rainy  arrows. 


NEW  POEMS 


425 


It  bears  the  song  of  the  skylark  down, 
And  it  hears  the  singing  of  the  town, 

And  youth  on  the  highways 
And  lovers  in  byways, 

Follows  and  sees: 

And  hearken  the  song  of  the  leas 
And  sings  the  songs  of  the  highways. 

So  when  the  earth  is  alive  with  gods 
And  the  lusty  ploughman  breaks  the  sods, 
And  the  grass  sings  in  the  meadows, 
And  the  flowers  smile  in  the  shadows, 
Sits  my  heart  at  ease, 

Hearing  the  song  of  the  leas, 

Singing  the  songs  of  the  meadows. 


CLI 

TO  what  shall  I  compare  her. 
That  is  as  fair  as  she? 

For  she  is  fairer — fairer 
Than  the  sea. 

What  shall  be  likened  to  her, 

The  sainted  of  my  youth  ? 

For  she  is  truer — truer 
Than  the  truth. 

As  the  stars  are  from  the  sleeper, 
Her  heart  is  hid  from  me; 

For  she  is  deeper — deeper 
Than  the  sea. 


426 


NEW  POEMS 


Yet  in  my  dreams  1  view  her 
Flush  rosy  with  new  ruth — 
Dreams  !  Ah,  may  these  prove  truer 
Than  the  truth. 

CLII 

WHEN  the  sun  comes  after  rain 
And  the  bird  is  in  the  blue, 
The  girls  go  down  the  lane 
Two  by  two. 

When  the  sun  comes  after  shadow 
And  the  singing  of  the  showers. 
The  girls  go  up  the  meadow, 

Fair  as  flowers. 

When  the  eve  comes  dusky  red 
And  the  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 
The  girls  go  home  to  bed 
One  by  one. 

And  when  life  draws  to  its  even 
And  the  day  of  man  is  past. 

They  shall  all  go  home  to  heaven, 
Home  at  last. 


CLIII 

I  ATE,  O  miller, 

The  birds  are  silent, 

The  darkness  falls. 

In  the  house  the  lights  are  lighted. 
See,  in  the  valley  they  twinkle, 


NEW  POEMS 


427 


The  lights  of  home. 
Late,  O  lovers, 

The  night  is  at  hand, 
Silence  and  darkness 
Clothe  the  land. 


CLIV 

TO  friends  at  home,  the  lone,  the  admired,  the  lost, 
The  gracious  old,  the  lovely  young,  to  May 
The  fair,  December  the  beloved. 

These  from  my  blue  horizon  and  green  isles, 

These  from  this  pinnacle  of  distances,  I, 

The  unforge tful,  dedicate.1 

CLV 

I  WHOM  Apollo  sometime  visited, 

Or  feigned  to  visit,  now,  my  day  being  done, 
Do  slumber  wholly;  nor  shall  know  at  all 
The  weariness  of  changes;  nor  perceive 
Immeasurable  sands  of  centuries 
Drink  up  the  blanching  ink,  or  the  loud  sound 
Of  generations  beat  the  music  down. 


CLVI 

THE  FAR-FARERS 


THE  broad  sun, 

The  bright  day, 

White  sails 

On  the  blue  bay: — 

The  far-farers 
Draw  away. 

1  Doubtless  expressing  Stevenson’s  intention  of  putting  together  his 
verses  in  a  volume. 


428 


NEW  POEMS 


Light  the  Fires 

And  close  the  door. 
To  the  old  homes, 

To  the  loved  shore, 
The  far-farers 
Return  no  more. 


CLVII 

FAR  over  seas  an  island  is 

Whereon  when  day  is  done 
A  grove  of  tossing  palms 
Are  printed  on  the  sun. 

And  all  about  the  reefy  shore 
Blue  breakers  flash  and  fall. 

There  shall  I  go,  me  thinks, 

When  I  am  done  with  all. 

Have  I  no  castle  then  in  Spain, 

No  island  of  the  mind, 

Where  I  can  turn  and  go  again 
When  life  shall  prove  unkind? 

Up,  sluggard  soul !  and  far  from  here 
Our  mountain  forest  seek; 

Or  nigh  enchanted  island,  steer 
Down  the  desired  creek. 


NEW  POEMS 


429 


CLVIII 

ON  the  gorgeous  hills  of  morning 
A  sudden  piping  of  birds, 

A  piping  of  all  the  forest,  high  and  merry  and  clear, 
I  lay  in  my  tent  and  listened; 

I  lay  and  heard  them  long, 

In  the  dark  of  the  moonlit  morning. 

The  birds  of  the  night  at  song. 

I  lay  and  listened  and  heard  them 
Sing  ere  the  day  was  begun; 

Sing  and  sink  into 
Silence  one  by  one. 

I  lay  in  my  bed  and  looked — 

Paler  than  starlight  or  lightning 
A  glimmer  .  .  . 

In  the  highlands  in  the  country  places 
Where  the  old  plain  men  have  rosy  faces. 

And  the  young  fair  lasses 
Quiet  eyes, 

Light  and  heat  begin,  begin  and  strengthen, 

And  the  shadows  turn  and  shrink  and  lengthen, 

As  the  great  sun  passes  in  the  skies. 

Life  and  death  go  by  with  heedful  faces — 

Mock  with  silent  steps  these  empty  places. 

CLIX 

RIVERS  and  winds  among  the  twisted  hills. 
Hears,  and  his  hearing  slowly  fills, 

And  hearkens,  and  his  face  is  lit, 

Life  facing,  Death  pursuing  it. 


430 


NEW  POEMS 


As  with  heaped  bees  at  hiving  time 
The  boughs  are  clotted,  as  (ere  prime) 
Heaven  swarms  with  stars,  or  the  city  street 
Pullulates  with  passing  feet; 

So  swarmed  my  senses  once,  that  now 
Repose  behind  my  tranquil  brow, 

Unsealed,  asleep,  quiescent,  clear; 

Now  only  the  vast  shapes  I  hear — 

Hear — and  my  hearing  slowly  fills — 

Rivers  and  winds  among  the  twisting  hills, 
And  hearken — and  my  face  is  lit — 

Life  facing,  Death  pursuing  it. 


CLX 


TEMPEST  tossed  and  sore  afflicted,  sin  defiled  and 
care  oppressed. 

Come  to  me  all  ye  that  labour,  come  and  I  will  give  ye 
rest. 

Fear  no  more,  O  doubting  hearted,  weep  no  more,  O  weep¬ 
ing  eye ! 

Lo !  the  voice  of  your  redeemer,  lo,  the  songful  morning 
near. 

Here  one  hour  you  toil  and  combat,  sin  and  suffer,  bleed 
and  die; 

In  my  father’s  quiet  mansion,  soon  to  lay  your  burden 
by. 

Bear  a  moment,  heavy  laden,  weary  hand  and  weeping 
eye, 

Lo,  the  feet  of  your  deliverer,  lo,  the  hour  of  freedom 
here. 


NEW  POEMS 


431 


CLXI 


|  NOW,  0  friend,  whom  noiselessly  the  snows 
Settle  around;  and  whose  small  chamber  grows 
Dusk  as  the  sloping  window  takes  its  load: 


The  kindly  hill,  as  to  complete  our  hap, 

Has  ta’en  us  in  the  shelter  of  her  lap; 

Well  sheltered,  in  our  slender  grove  of  trees 
And  ring  of  walls,  we  sit  between  her  knees; 

A  disused  quarry,  paved  with  rose-plots,  hung 
With  clematis,  the  barren  womb  whence  sprung 
The  crow-stepped  house  itself,  that,  now  far  seen 
Stands,  like  a  bather,  to  the  neck  in  green. 

A  disused  quarry,  furnished  with  a  seat 
Sacred  to  pipes  and  meditation  meet 
For  such  a  sunny  and  retired  nook. 

There  in  the  clear,  warm  mornings,  many  a  book 
Has  vied  with  the  fair  prospect  of  the  hills 
That,  vale  on  vale,  rough  brae  on  brae,  upfills 
Halfway  to  the  zenith,  all  the  vacant  sky 
To  keep  my  loose  attention.  .  .  . 

Horace  has  sat  with  me  whole  mornings  through: 
And  Montaigne  gossiped,  fairly  false  and  true; 
And  chattering  Pepys,  and  a  few  beside 
That  suit  the  easy  vein,  the  quiet  tide, 

The  calm  and  certain  stay  of  garden-life, 

Far  sunk  from  all  the  thunderous  roar  of  strife. 
There  is  about  the  small  secluded  place 
A  garnish  of  old  times;  a  certain  grace 
Of  pensive  memories  lays  about  the  braes: 

The  old  chestnuts  gossip  tales  of  bygone  days. 


432 


NEW  POEMS 


Here,  where  some  wandering  preacher,  blest  Lazil1 

Perhaps,  or  Peden,  on  the  middle  hill 

Had  made  his  secret  church,  in  rain  or  snow, 

He  cheers  the  chosen  residue  from  woe. 

All  night  the  doors  stood  open,  come  who  might 
The  hounded  kebbock  went  the  round  all  night. 

Nor  are  there  wanting  later  tales;  of  how 
Prince  Charlie’s  Highlanders.  .  .  . 

I  have  had  talents,  too.  In  life's  first  hour 
God  crowned  with  benefits  my  childish  head. 

Flower  after  flower,  I  plucked  them;  flower  by  flower 
Cast  behind  me,  ruined,  withered,  dead. 

Full  many  a  shining  godhead  disappeared. 

From  the  bright  rank  that  once  adorned  her  brow 
The  old  child’s  Olympus — 

•  ••<•••••• 

Gone  are  the  fair  old  dreams,  and  one  by  one, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  means  to  reach  them  went, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  stars  in  riot  and  disgrace, 

I  squandered  what.  .  .  . 

There  shut  the  door,  alas  on  many  a  hope 
Too  many; 

My  face  is  set  to  the  autumnal  slope, 

Where  the  loud  winds  shall — 

There  shut  the  door,  alas !  on  many  a  hope. 

And  yet  some  hopes  remain,  that  shall  decide 
My  rest  of  years  and  down  the  autumnal  slope. 


1  “Lazil”  should  read  “Cargil.” 


NEW  POEMS 


433 


Gone  are  the  quiet,  twilight  dreams  that  I 
Loved,  as  all  men  have  loved  them ;  gone ! 

I  have  great  dreams,  and  still  they  stir  my  soul  on  high — 
Dreams  of  the  knight’s  stout  heart  and  tempered  will. 
Not  in  Elysian  lands,  they  take  their  way; 

Not  as  of  yore  across  the  gay  champaign, 

Towards  some  dream  city,  towered  in.  .  .  .  and  my.  .  .  . 
The  path  winds  forth  before  me,  sweet  and  plain. 

Not  now;  but  though  beneath  a  stone-grey  sky, 
November’s  russet  woodlands  toss  and  wail, 

Still  the  white  road  goes  thro’  them,  still  may  I, 

Strong  in  new  purpose,  God,  may  still  prevail. 

•  ••«•••••• 

I  and  my  like,  improvident  sailors ! 


At  whose  light  fall  awaking,  all  my  heart 
Grew  populous  with  gracious-favoured  thought 
And,  all  night  long  thereafter,  hour  by  hour, 

The  pageant  of  dead  love  before  my  eyes 
Went  proudly,  and  old  hopes  with  downcast  head 
Followed  like  Kings,  subdued  in  Rome’s  imperial  hour. 
Followed  the  car;  and  I.  .  .  . 


CLXII 


SINCE  thou  hast  given  me  this  good  hope,  O  God, 
That  while  my  footsteps  tread  the  flowery  sod 
And  the  great  woods  embower  me,  and  white  dawn 
And  purple  even  sweetly  lead  me  on 
From  day  to  day  and  night  to  night,  O  God, 

My  life  shall  no  wise  miss  the  light  of  love, 


434 


NEW  POEMS 


But  ever  climbing,  climb  above 
Man’s  one  poor  star,  man’s  supine  lands, 

Into  the  azure  steadfastness  of  death. 

My  life  shall  no  wise  lack  the  light  of  love, 

My  hands  not  lack  the  loving  touch  of  hands, 
But  day  by  day,  while  yet  I  draw  my  breath, 
And  day  by  day  unto  my  last  of  years, 

I  shall  be  one  that  has  a  perfect  friend, 

Her  heart  shall  taste  my  laughter  and  my  tears, 
And  her  kind  eyes  shall  lead  me  to  the  end. 


CLXIII 


GOD  gave  to  me  a  child  in  part. 

Yet  wholly  gave  the  father’s  heart: — 
Child  of  my  soul,  O  whither  now, 

Unborn,  unmothered,  goest  thou? 


You  came,  you  went,  and  no  man  wist; 

Hapless,  my  child,  no  breast  you  kist; 

On  no  dear  knees,  a  privileged  babbler,  clomb, 
Nor  knew  the  kindly  feel  of  home. 

My  voice  may  reach  you,  O  my  dear — 

A  father’s  voice  perhaps  the  child  may  hear; 

And  pitying,  you  may  turn  your  view 
On  that  poor  father  whom  you  never  knew. 

Alas !  alone  he  sits,  who  then, 

Immortal  among  mortal  men. 

Sat  hand  in  hand  with  love,  and  all  day  through 
With  your  dear  mother,  wondered  over  you. 


NEW  POEMS 


4  oo 


CLXIV 


OVER  the  land  is  April, 
Over  my  heart  a  rose; 
Over  the  high,  brown  mountain 
The  sound  of  singing  goes. 
Say,  love,  do  you  hear  me, 
Hear  my  sonnets  ring? 

Over  the  high,  brown  mountain 
Love  do  you  hear  me  sing? 


By  highway,  love,  and  byway, 
The  snows  succeed  the  rose. 
Over  the  high,  brown  mountain 
The  wind  of  winter  blows. 
Say,  love,  do  you  hear  me, 

Hear  my  sonnets  ring? 


Over  the  high,  brown  mountain 
I  sound  the  song  of  spring, 

I  throw  the  flowers  of  spring. 
Do  you  hear  the  song  of  spring. 
Hear  you  the  songs  of  spring  ? 


CLXV 

1IGHT  as  the  linnet  on  my  way  I  start, 

For  all  my  pack  I  bear  a  chastened  heart. 
Forth  on  the  world  without  a  guide  or  chart, 
Content  to  know  through  all  man’s  varying  fates, 
The  eternal  woman  by  the  wayside  waits. 


NEW  POEMS 
CLXVI 


436 


COME,  here  is  adieu  to  the  city 

And  hurrah  for  the  country  again. 
The  broad  road  lies  before  me 
Watered  with  last  night’s  rain. 

The  timbered  country  woos  me. 

With  many  a  hill  and  bough; 

And  again  in  the  shining  fallows, 

The  ploughman  follows  the  plough. 

The  whole  year’s  sweat  and  study 
And  the  whole  year’s  sowing  time, 
Comes  now  to  the  perfect  harvest 
And  ripens  now  into  rhyme. 

For  wre  that  sow  in  the  Autumn, 

We  reap  our  grain  in  the  Spring, 

And  wre  that  go  sowing  and  wreeping. 
Return  to  reap  and  sing. 


CLXVII 

IT  blows  a  snowing  gale  in  the  winter  of  the  year; 

The  boats  are  on  the  sea  and  the  crew^s  are  on  the 
pier. 

The  needle  of  the  vane,  it  is  veering  to  and  fro, 

A  flash  of  sun  is  on  the  veering  of  the  vane. 

Autumn  leaves  and  rain, 

The  passion  of  the  gale. 


NEW  POEMS 


43? 


CLXVIII 

NE  SIT  ANCILLAE  TIBI  AMOR 

PUDORI 

THERE’S  just  a  twinkle  in  your  eye 
That  seems  to  say  I  might ,  if  I 
Were  only  bold  enough  to  try 
An  arm  about  your  waist. 

I  hear,  too,  as  you  come  and  go, 

That  pretty  nervous  laugh,  you  know; 

And  then  your  cap  is  always  so 
Coquettishly  displaced. 

Your  cap !  the  word’s  profanely  said. 

That  little  top-knot,  white  and  red, 

That  quaintly  crowns  your  graceful  head, 
No  bigger  than  a  flower, 

Is  set  with  such  a  witching  art, 

Is  so  provocatively  smart, 

I’d  like  to  wear  it  on  my  heart. 

An  order  for  an  hour ! 

O  graceful  housemaid,  tall  and  fair, 

I  love  your  shy  imperial  air, 

And  always  loiter  on  the  stair. 

When  you  are  going  by. 

A  strict  reserve  the  fates  demand; 

But,  when  to  let  you  pass  I  stand, 
Sometimes,  by  chance  I  touch  your  hand 
And  sometimes  catch  your  eye. 


438 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXIX 


TO  all  that  love  the  far  and  blue: 

Whether,  from  dawn  to  eve,  on  foot 
The  fleeing  corners  ye  pursue, 

Nor  weary  of  the  vain  pursuit; 

Or  whether  down  the  singing  stream, 
Paddle  in  hand,  jocund  ye  shoot. 

To  splash  beside  the  splashing  bream 
Or  anchor  by  the  willow  root: 


Or,  bolder,  from  the  narrow  shore 
Put  forth,  that  cedar  ark  to  steer. 
Among  the  seabirds  and  the  roar 

Of  the  great  sea,  profound  and  clear; 
Or,  lastly  if  in  heart  ye  roam. 

Not  caring  to  do  else,  and  hear, 

Safe  sitting  by  the  fire  at  home. 
Footfalls  in  Utah  or  Pamere: 


Though  long  the  way,  though  hard  to  bear 
The  sun,  and  rain,  the  dust  and  dew; 
Though  still  attainment  and  despair 
Inter  the  old,  despoil  the  new; 

There  shall  at  length,  be  sure,  O  friends, 
Howe’er  ye  steer,  whate’er  ye  do — 

At  length  and  at  the  end  of  ends, 

The  golden  city  come  in  view. 


NEW  POEMS 

CLXX 


439 


NOW  bare  to  the  beholder’s  eye, 

Your  late  denuded  bindings  lie, 
Subsiding  slowly  where  they  fell, 

A  disin vested  citadel; 

The  obdurate  corset,  Cupid’s  foe. 

The  Dutchman’s  breeches  frilled  below, 
Those  that  the  lover  loves  to  note, 

And  white  and  crackling  petticoat. 

From  these,  that  on  the  ground  repose, 
Their  lady  lately  re-arose; 

And  laying  by  the  lady’s  name 
A  living  woman  re-became. 

Of  her,  that  from  the  public  eye 
They  do  inclose  and  fortify, 

Now,  lying  scattered  as  they  fell. 

An  indiscree  ter  tale  they  tell: 

Of  that  more  soft  and  secret  her 
Whose  daylong  fortresses  they  were. 

By  fading  warmth,  by  lingering  print, 
These  now  discarded  scabbards  hint. 

A  twofold  change  the  ladies  know. 

First,  in  the  morn  the  bugles  blow, 

And  they,  with  floral  hues  and  scents, 
Man  their  be-ribboned  battlements. 

But  let  the  stars  appear,  and  they 
Shed  inhumanities  away; 

And  from  the  changeling  fashion  see. 
Through  comic  and  through  sweet  degree, 
In  nature’s  toilet  unsurpassed, 

Forth  leaps  the  laughing  girl  at  last. 


440 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXXI 

THE  BOUR-TREE  DEN 


CLINKUM-CLANK  in  the  rain  they  ride 
Down  by  the  braes  and  the  grey  sea-side, 
Clinkum-clank  by  stane  and  cairn: 

Weary  fa’  their  horse-shoe-airn ! 


Loud  on  the  causey,  saft  on  the  sand. 

Round  they  rade  by  the  tail  of  the  land. 
Round  and  up  by  the  Bour-Tree  Den: 

Weary  fa’  the  red-coat  men ! 

Aft  hae  I  gane  where  they  hae  rade 
And  straigled  in  the  gowden  brooms— 

Aft  hae  I  gane,  a  saikless  maid. 

And  O !  sae  bonny  as  the  bour-tree  blooms ! 

Wi’  swords  and  guns  they  wanton  there, 

Wi’  red,  red  coats  and  braw,  braw  plumes. 
But  I  gaed  wi’  my  gowden  hair, 

And  O !  sae  bonny  as  the  bour-tree  blooms ! 

I  ran,  a  little  hernpie  lass, 

In  the  sand  and  the  bent  grass. 

Or  took  and  kilted  my  small  coats 
To  play  in  the  beached  fisher-boats. 

I  waded  deep  and  I  ran  fast, 

I  was  as  lean  as  a  lugger’s  mast, 

I  was  as  brown  as  a  fisher’s  creel. 

And  I  liked  my  life  unco  week 


NEW  POEMS 


441 


They  blew  a  trumpet  at  the  cross, 

Some  forty  men,  both  foot  and  horse, 

A ’body  cam  to  hear  and  see, 

And  wha,  among  the  rest,  but  me. 

My  lips  were  saut  wi’  the  saut  air, 

My  face  was  brown,  my  feet  were  bare, 
The  wind  had  ravelled  my  tautit  hair, 

And  I  thought  shame  to  be  standing  there. 

Ae  man  there  in  the  thick  of  the  throng, 
Sat  in  his  saddle,  straight  and  strong. 

I  looked  at  him  and  he  at  me, 

And  he  was  a  master-man  to  see. 

- And  who  is  this  yin?  and  who  is  yon 

That  has  the  bonny  lendings  on? 

That  sits  and  looks  sae  hr  aw  and  crouse? 
- Mister  Frank  o’  the  Big  House! 

I  gaed  my  lane  beside  the  sea; 

The  wind  it  blew  in  bush  and  tree, 

The  wind  blew  in  bush  and  bent: 

Muckle  I  saw,  and  muckle  kent ! 

Between  the  beach  and  the  sea-hill, 

I  sat  my  lane  and  grat  my  fill — 

I  was  sae  clarty  and  hard  and  dark, 

And  like  the  kye  in  the  cow  park ! 

There  fell  a  battle  far  in  the  north; 

The  evil  news  gaed  back  and  forth, 

And  back  and  forth  by  brae  and  bent 
Hider  and  hunter  cam  and  went: 

The  hunter  clattered  horse-shoe-airn 


442 


NEW  POEMS 


By  causey-crest  and  hill-top  cairn; 

The  hider,  in  by  shag  and  sheuch, 

Crept  on  his  wame  and  little  leuch  ? 

The  eastland  wind  blew  shrill  and  snell. 

The  stars  arose,  the  gloaming  fell, 

The  firelight  shone  in  window  and  door 
When  Mr.  Frank  cam  here  to  shore. 

He  hirpled  up  by  the  links  and  the  lane, 

And  chappit  laigh  in  the  back-door-stane. 

My  faither  gaed,  and  up  wi’  his  han’ ! 

- Is  this  Mr.  Frank ,  or  a  heggarman? 

I  have  mistrysted  sair ,  he  said, 

But  let  me  into  fire  and  bed. 

Let  me  in  for  auld  lang  syne , 

And  give  me  a  dram  of  the  brandy  wine. 

They  hid  him  in  the  Bour-Tree  Den, 

And  I  thought  it  strange  to  gang  my  lane. 

I  thought  it  strange,  I  thought  it  sweet, 

To  gang  there  on  my  naked  feet, 

In  the  mirk  night,  when  the  boats  were  at  sea, 
I  passed  the  burn  abune  the  knee. 

In  the  mirk  night  when  the  folks  were  asleep, 

I  had  a  tryst  in  the  den  to  keep. 

Late  and  air’,  when  the  folks  were  asleep, 

I  had  a  tryst,  a  tryst  to  keep, 

I  had  a  lad  that  lippened  to  me. 

And  bour-tree  blossom  is  fair  to  see ! 


NEW  POEMS 


443 


O’  the  hour- tree  leaves  I  busked  his  bed, 
The  mune  was  siller,  the  dawn  was  red: 
Was  nae  man  there  but  him  and  me, — 
And  bour-tree  blossom  is  fair  to  see ! 

Unco  weather  hae  we  been  through. 

The  mune  glowered,  and  the  wind  blew. 
And  the  rain  it  rained  on  him  and  me, 
And  bour-tree  blossom  is  fair  to  see ! 

Dwelling  his  lane  but  house  or  hauld, 

Aft  he  was  wet  and  aft  was  cauld, 

I  warmed  him  wi’  my  briest  and  knee, — 
And  bour-tree  blossom  is  fair  to  see ! 

There  was  nae  voice  of  beast  ae  man, 
But  the  tree  soughed  and  the  bum  ran, 
And  we  heard  the  ae  voice  of  the  sea: 
Bour-tree  blossom  is  fair  to  see ! 


CLXXII 

SONNETS 

1 

TO  THE  SEA 


THY  God  permits  thee,  but  with  dreadful  hand 
Canst  churn  great  boulders  into  little  sand, 

On  fruitless  tasks  to  waste  thy  summer  ease. 

In  tide  washed  seaweeds  find  a  childish  joy. 

Or — harnessing  the  unruly  force  of  sea 
To  lick  smooth  stone  into  a  fretted  toy — 

From  thy  great  page,  turn  forth  knick-knacks  to  please 
A  Lilliputian  fancy — yea  produce 


444 


NEW  POEMS 


Such  nice  laborious  fritters  as  could  these 
Old  chinamen  whose  life,  by  slow  degrees, 

Frayed  four  and  twenty  peachstones  into  lace. 
Hence  know  that  in  our  smallest  work  God  sees 
Some  service  to  himself,  or  some  good  use, 

From  us  yet  hidden  and  our  blinded  race. 


2 


TO  MY  PIPE 


A  GOLDEN  service,  most  loveworthy  yoke, 

Thou,  O  my  pipe,  imposest,  when  thy  bowl 
Alternate  dusks  and  quickens  like  a  coal 
At  every  inhalation  of  sweet  smoke. 

Thou,  thrifty  farmer  of  the  mind  o’erbraced, 

Dost  clear  a  stage  for  fancy’s  puppet  folk, 

And  giv’st  rich  fallow  seasons  to  the  soul, 

Moods  soft  as  sleep  that  me  could  wake  to  taste. 
Therefore  to  thee  the  incense  do  I  pour 
Of  one  white  volley,  that  around  my  head 

Weaves  fragrant  circlets  ere  it  spreads  to  nought: 
This  service  do  I  pay  thee,  thus  adore 
The  healing  power  in  thy  soft  office  shed 

To  dull  old  griefs  and  ease  harassing  thought. 


3 

THE  roadside  lined  with  ragweed,  the  sharp  hills 
Standing  against  the  glow  of  eve,  the  patch 
Of  rough  white  oats  mongst  darkling  granite  knolls, 
The  ferny  coverts  where  the  adders  hatch, 

The  hollow  that  the  northern  sea  upfills, 

The  seagull  wheeling  by  with  strange,  sad  calls, 


NEW  POEMS 


445 


All  these,  this  evening,  weary  me.  Full  fain 
Would  I  turn  up  the  little  elm  tree  way 
And  under  the  last  elm  tree,  once  again 

Stretch  myself  with  my  head  among  the  grass; 
So  lying,  tyne  the  memories  of  day 

And  let  my  loosed,  insatiate  being  pass 
Into  the  blackbird’s  song  of  summer  ease, 

Or,  with  the  white  moon,  rise  in  spirit  from  the  trees. 


4 

SIR  ALAN  M/LEAN’S  EFFIGY,  ON  INCH  KENNETH 


HARD  by  the  ruined  kirk  above  the  sound 
Among  worn  headstones,  old  Sir  Alan  lies: 

? - of  rich  grapes  buries  him  around; 

And  thou  mays’t  see  the  birds  withouten  fear 
Trip  on  his  face  and  treble  in  his  ear, 

And  round  his  senseless  head  buzzy  summer  flies. 

Close  by  from  out  a  trumpet  comes  a  scroll, 

Between  a  skull  and  crossbones  carven  deep, 

And  on  the  scroll,  these  words — “The  dead  shall  rise.” 
Till  when  whoever,  under  summer  skies 
Shall  see  the  place  that  guards  his  quiet  sleep. 

From - for  a  bed  so  held  at  rest 

Amongst  the  lap  of  mountains,  shall  suggest 
’Tis  better  with  his  body  than  his  soul. 


5 


NOR  judge  me  light,  tho’  light  at  times  I  seem 
And  lightly  in  the  stress  of  fortune,  bear 
The  unnumerable  flaws  of  changeful  care — 

Nor  judge  me  light  for  this,  nor  rashly  deem 
(Office  forbid  to  mortals,  kept  supreme 


446 


NEW  POEMS 


And  separate  the  prerogative  of  God !) 

That  seaman  idle,  who  is  borne  abroad 
To  the  far  haven  by  the  favouring  stream. 

Not  he  alone  that  to  contrarious  seas 
Opposes,  all  night  long,  the  unwearied  oar. 

Not  he  alone,  by  high  success  endeared. 

Shall  reach  the  Port;  but,  winged,  with  some  light  breeze 
Shall  they,  with  upright  keels,  pass  in  before, 

Whom  easy  Taste,  the  golden  pilot,  steered. 

6 

SO  shall  this  book  wax  like  unto  a  well. 

Fairy  with  mirrored  flowers  about  the  brim, 

Or  like  some  tarn,  that  wailing  curlews  skim, 
Glassing  the  sallow  uplands  or  brown  fell; 

And  so,  as  men  go  down  into  a  dell 
(Weary  with  noon)  to  find  relief  and  shade, 

When  on  the  uneasy  sick-bed  we  are  laid, 

We  shall  go  down  into  thy  book,  and  tell 
The  leaves,  once  blank,  to  build  again  for  us 
Old  summer  dead  and  ruined  and  the  time 
Of  later  autumn  with  the  corn  in  stook. 

So  shalt  thou  stint  the  meagre  winter  thus 
Of  his  projected  triumph,  and  the  rime 
Shall  melt  before  the  sunshine  in  thy  book. 

7 

I  HAVE  a  hoard  of  treasure  in  my  breast; 

The  grange  of  memory  steams  against  the  door. 
Full  of  my  bygone  lifetime’s  garnered  store, 

Old  pleasures  crowned  with  sorrow  for  a  zest, 


NEW  POEMS 


447 


Old  sorrow  grown  a  joy,  old  penance  blest, 
Chastened  remembrance  of  the  sins  of  yore 
That,  like  a  new  evangel,  more  and  more 
Supports  our  halting  will  toward  the  best. 

Ah,  what  to  us  the  barren  after  years 
May  bring  of  joy  or  sorrow,  who  can  tell? 

O,  knowing  not,  who  cares  ?  It  may  be  well 
That  we  shall  find  old  pleasures  and  old  fears, 
And  our  remembered  childhood  seen  thro’  tears 
The  best  of  Heaven  and  the  worst  of  Hell. 


8 

AS  starts  the  absent  dreamer,  when  a  train 
L  Suddenly  disengulphed  below  his  feet 
Roars  forth  into  the  sunlight,  to  its  seat 
My  soul  was  shaken  with  immediate  pain 
Intolerable  as  the  scanty  breath 
Of  that  one  word  blew  utterly  away 
The  fragile  mist  of  fair  deceit  that  lay 
O’er  the  bleak  years  that  severed  me  from  death. 
Yes,  at  the  sight  I  quailed;  but,  not  unwise 
Or  not,  O  God,  without  some  nervous  thread 
Of  that  best  valour,  Patience,  bowed  my  head 
And  with  firm  bosom  and  most  steadfast  eyes, 
Strong  in  all  high  resolve,  prepared  to  tread 
The  unlovely  path  that  leads  me  toward  the  skies. 


448 


NEW  POEMS 
9 


NOT  undelightful,  friend,  our  rustic  ease 
To  grateful  hearts;  for  by  especial  hap 
Deep  nested  in  the  hill’s  enormous  lap 
With  its  own  ring  of  walls  and  grove  of  trees 
Sits,  in  deep  shelter,  our  small  cottage — nor 
Far-off  is  seen  rose  carpeted  and  hung 
With  clematis,  the  quarry  whence  she  sprung, 

0  mater  pulchra  filia  pulchrior. 

Whither  in  early  spring,  unharnessed  folk, 

We  join  the  pairing  swallows,  glad  to  stay 
Where,  loosened  in  the  hills,  remote,  unseen, 

From  its  tall  trees,  it  breathes  a  slender  smoke 
To  heaven,  and  in  the  noon  of  sultry  day 
Stands,  coolly  buried,  to  the  neck  in  green. 

10 

AS  in  the  hostel  by  the  bridge,  I  sate 

Mailed  with  indifference  fondly  deemed  complete 
And  (O  strange  chance,  more  sorrowful  than  sweet) 
The  counterfeit  of  her  that  was  my  fate, 

Dressed  in  like  vesture,  graceful  and  sedate, 

Went  quietly  up  the  vacant  village  street, 

The  still  small  sound  of  her  most  dainty  feet 
Shook,  like  a  trumpet  blast,  my  soul’s  estate. 

Instant  revolt  ran  riot  through  my  brain; 

And  all  night  long,  thereafter,  hour  by  hour. 

The  pageant  of  dead  love  before  my  eyes 
Went  proudly;  and  old  hopes  broke  loose  again 
From  the  restraint  of  wisely  temperate  power, 

With  ineffectual  ardour  sought  to  rise. 


NEW  POEMS 


449 


11 

THE  strong  man’s  hand,  the  snow-cool  head  of  age. 
The  certain-footed  sympathies  of  youth — 

These,  and  that  lofty  passion  after  truth. 

Hunger  unsatisfied  in  priest  or  sage 
Or  the  great  men  of  former  years,  he  needs 
That  not  unworthily  would  dare  to  sing 
(Hard  task !)  black  care’s  inevitable  ring 
Settling  with  years,  upon  the  heart  that  feeds 
Incessantly  on  glory.  Year  by  year 
The  narrowing  toil  grows  closer  round  his  feet; 

With  disenchanting  touch  rude-handed  time 
The  unlovely  web  discloses,  and  strange  fear 
Leads  him  at  last  to  eld’s  inclement  seat. 

The  bitter  north  of  life — a  frozen  clime. 


U 

AS  Daniel,  bird-alone,  in  that  far  land, 

L  Kneeling  in  fervent  prayer  with  heart-sick  eyes 
Turned  thro’  the  casement  toward  the  westering  skies; 
Or  as  untamed  Elijah,  that  red  brand 
Among  the  starry  prophets;  or  that  band 
And  company  of  Faithful  sanctities, 

Who,  in  all  times,  when  persecutions  rise. 

Cherish  forgotten  creeds  with  fostering  hand; 

Such  do  ye  seem  to  me,  light-hearted  crew, 

O  turned  to  friendly  arts  with  all  your  will, 

That  keep  a  little  chapel  sacred  still, 

One  rood  of  Holy-land  in  this  bleak  earth 
Sequestered  still  (our  homage  surely  due !) 

To  the  twin  Gods  of  mirthful  wine  and  mirth. 


450 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXXIII 

THE  FAMILY 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER 

TT1GH  as  my  heart!  the  quip  be  mine 
That  draws  their  stature  to  a  line, 
My  pair  of  fairies  plump  and  dark, 

The  dryads  of  my  cattle  park. 

Here  by  my  window  close  I  sit, 

And  watch  (and  my  heart  laughs  at  it) 
How  these  my  dragon-lilies  are 
Alike  and  yet  dissimilar. 

From  European  womankind 
They  are  divided  and  defined 
By  the  free  limb  and  the  plain  mind, 

The  nobler  gait,  the  naked  foot. 

The  indiscree  ter  petticoat; 

And  show,  by  each  endearing  cause, 

More  like  what  Eve  in  Eden  was — 

Buxom  and  free,  flowing  and  fine, 

In  every  limb,  in  every  line. 

Inimitably  feminine. 

Like  ripe  fruit  on  the  espaliers 
Their  sun-bepainted  hue  appears, 

And  the  white  lace  (when  lace  they  wear) 
Shows  on  their  golden  breast  more  fair. 

So  far  the  same  they  seem,  and  yet 
One  apes  the  shrew,  one  the  coquette — 

A  sybil  or  a  truant  child. 

One  runs,  with  a  crop-halo,  wild; 


s. 


NEW  POEMS 


451 


And  one,  more  sedulous  to  please. 

Her  long  dark  hair,  deep  as  her  knees 
And  thrid  with  living  silver,  sees. 

What  need  have  I  of  wealth  or  fame, 

A  club,  an  often-printed  name? 

It  more  contents  my  heart  to  know 
Them  going  simply  to  and  fro: 

To  see  the  dear  pair  pause  and  pass, 
Girded,  among  the  drenching  grass, 

In  the  resplendent  sun;  or  hear, 

When  the  huge  moon  delays  to  appear, 
Their  kindred  voices  sounding  near 
In  the  verandah  twilight.  So 
Sound  ever;  so,  for  ever  go 
And  come  upon  your  small  brown  feet: 
Twin  honours  to  my  country  seat 
And  its  too  happy  master  lent: 

My  solace  and  its  ornament ! 


2 

THE  DAUGHTER,  TEUILA,  NATIVE  NAME  FOR 

ADORNER 


MAN,  child,  or  woman,  none  from  her. 
The  insatiable  embellisher, 

Escapes  !  She  leaves,  where’er  she  goes, 

A  wreath,  a  ribbon,  or  a  rose: 

A  bow  or  else  a  button  changed. 

Two  hairs  coquettishly  deranged, 

Some  vital  trifle,  takes  the  eye 
And  shows  the  adorner  has  been  by. 


45  £ 


NEW  POEMS 


Is  fortune  more  obdurate  grown? 

And  does  she  leave  my  dear  alone 
With  none  to  adorn,  none  to  caress? 
Straight  on  her  proper  loveliness 
She  broods  and  lingers,  cuts  and  carves 
With  combs  and  brushes,  rings  and  scarves. 
The  treasure  of  her  hair  she  takes; 
Therewith  a  new  presentment  makes. 

Babe,  Goddess,  Naiad  of  the  grot, 

And  weeps  if  any  like  it  not ! 

Her  absent,  she  shall  still  be  found, 

A  posse  of  native  maids  around 
Her  and  her  whirring  instrument 
Collected  and  on  learning  bent. 

Of  t  clustered  by  her  tender  knees 
(Smiling  himself)  the  gazer  sees. 

Compact  as  flowers  in  garden  beds, 

The  smiling  faces  and  shaved  heads 
Of  the  brown  island  babes,  with  whom 
She  exults  to  decorate  her  room, 

To  dress  them,  cheer  them  when  they  cry. 
And  still  to  pet  and  prettify. 

Or  see,  as  in  a  looking-glass 
Her  graceful,  dimpled  person  pass. 

Nought  great  therein  but  eyes  and  hair, 

On  her  true  business  here  and  there; 

Her  huge,  half-naked  Staff,  intent, 

See  her  review  and  regiment, 

An  ant  with  elephants,  and  how 
A  smiling  mouth,  a  clouded  brow, 

Satire  and  turmoil,  quips  and  tears, 

She  deals  among  her  grenadiers ! 


NEW  POEMS 


453 


Her  pantry  and  her  kitchen  squad, 
Six-footers  all,  hang  on  her  nod, 

Incline  to  her  their  martial  chests, 

With  school-boy  laughter  hail  her  jests, 

And  do  her  in  her  kilted  dress 
Obsequious  obeisances. 

But  rather  to  behold  her  when 
She  plies  for  me  the  unresting  pen ! 

And  while  her  crimson  blood  peeps  out 
Hints  a  suggestion,  halts  a  doubt: — 

Laughs  at  a  jest;  or  with  a  shy 
Glance  of  a  parti-coloured  eye, 

Half  brown,  half  gold,  approves,  delights, 
And  warms  the  slave  for  whom  she  writes ! 
So,  dear,  may  you  be  never  done 
Your  pretty,  busy  round  to  run. 

And  show,  with  changing  frocks  and  scents. 
Your  ever- varying  lineaments, 

Your  saucy  step,  your  languid  grace. 

Your  sullen  and  your  smiling  face, 

Sound  sense,  true  valour,  baby  fears. 

And  bright  unreasonable  tears: 

The  Hebe  of  our  aging  tribe: 

Matron  and  child,  my  friend  and  scribe ! 


3 

About  my  fields,  in  the  broad  sun 
And  blaze  of  noon,  there  goeth  one,1 
Barefoot  and  robed  in  blue,  to  scan 
With  the  hard  eye  of  the  husbandman 
1Mrs.  Stevenson. 


454 


NEW  POEMS 


My  harvests  and  my  cattle.  Her, 

When  even  puts  the  birds  astir 
And  day  has  set  in  the  great  woods, 

We  seek,  among  her  garden  roods. 

With  bells  and  cries  in  vain:  the  while 
Lamps,  plate,  and  the  decanter  smile 
On  the  forgotten  board.  But  she, 

Deaf,  blind,  and  prone  on  face  and  knee. 
Forgets  time,  family,  and  feast 
And  digs  like  a  demented  beast. 


4 

Tall1  as  a  guardsman,  pale  as  the  east  at  dawn, 

Who  strides  in  strange  apparel  on  the  lawn? 

Rails  at  his  breakfast?  routs  his  vassals  out 
(Like  boys  escaped  from  school)  with  song  and  shout  ? 
See  where  his  gang,  like  frogs,  among  the  dew 
Crouch  at  their  duty,  an  unquiet  crew; 

Adjust  their  staring  kilts;  and  their  swift  eyes 
Turn  still  to  him  who  sits  to  supervise. 

He  in  the  midst,  perched  on  a  fallen  tree. 

Eyes  them  at  labour;  and,  guitar  on  knee, 

Now  ministers  alarm,  now  scatters  joy, 

Now  twangs  a  halting  chord,  now  tweaks  a  boy. 
Thorough  in  all,  my  resolute  vizier. 

Plays  both  the  despot  and  the  volunteer, 

Exacts  with  fines  obedience  to  my  laws, 

— And  for  his  music,  too,  exacts  applause. 


1  Lloyd  Osbourne. 


NEW  POEMS 
5 


455 


The  Adorner 1  of  the  uncomely — Those 
Amidst  whose  tall  battalions  goes 
Her  pretty  person  out  and  in 
All  day  with  an  endearing  din, 

Of  censure  and  encouragement; 

And  when  all  else  is  tried  in  vain 
See  her  sit  down  and  weep  again. 

She  weeps  to  conquer; 

She  varies  on  her  grenadiers 
From  satire  up  to  girlish  tears ! 

Or  rather  to  behold  her  when 
She  plies  for  me  the  unresting  pen, 
And  when  the  loud  assault  of  squalls 
Resounds  upon  the  roof  and  walls, 
And  the  low  thunder  growls  and  I 
Raise  my  dictating  voice  on  high. 


6 

What  glory  for  a  boy  of  ten,2 
Who  now  must  three  gigantic  men, 

And  two  enormous,  dapple  grey 
New  Zealand  pack-horses,  array 
And  lead,  and  wisely  resolute 
Our  day-long  business  execute 
In  the  far  shore-side  town.  His  soul 
Glows  in  his  bosom  like  a  coal; 

His  innocent  eyes  glitter  again, 

And  his  hand  trembles  on  the  rein. 

1  Mrs.  Strong’s  daughter,  Mrs.  Stevenson’s  granddaughter. 

2  Mrs.  Strong’s  son,  Austin,  Mrs.  Stevenson’s  grandson. 


456 


NEW  POEMS 


Once  he  reviews  his  whole  command 
And  chivalrously  planting  hand 
On  hip — a  borrowed  attitude — 

Rides  off  downhill  into  the  wood. 

7 

The  old  lady 1  (so  they  say)  but  I 
Admire  your  young  vitality. 

Still  brisk  of  foot,  still  busy  and  keen 
In  and  about  and  up  and  down. 

I  hear  you  pass  with  bustling  feet 
The  long  verandahs  round,  and  beat 
Your  bell,  and  “Lotu!  Lotu!”  cry; 

Thus  calling  our  queer  company 
In  morning  or  in  evening  dim, 

To  prayers  and  the  oft  mangled  hymn. 

All  day  you  watch  across  the  sky 
The  silent,  shining  cloudlands  ply, 

That,  huge  as  countries,  swift  as  birds, 
Beshade  the  isles  by  halves  and  thirds; 
Till  each  with  battlemented  crest 
Stands  anchored  in  the  ensanguined  west, 
An  Alp  enchanted.  All  the  day 
You  hear  the  exuberant  wind  at  play, 

In  vast,  unbroken  voice  uplift 
In  roaring  tree,  round  whistling  clift. 


1  Stevenson’s  mother. 


NEW  POEMS 


457 


8 

I  meanwhile  in  the  populous  house  apart 
Sit,  snugly  chambered,  and  my  silent  art 
Uninterrupted,  unremitting  ply 
Before  the  dawn,  by  morning  lamplight,  by 
The  glow  of  sweltering  noon,  and  when  the  sun 
Dips  past  my  westering  hill  and  day  is  done; 

So,  bending  still  over  my  trade  of  words, 

I  hear  the  morning  and  the  evening  birds, 

The  morning  and  the  evening  stars  behold; — 

So  there  apart  I  sit  as  once  of  old 
Napier  the  wizard  Merchiston;  and  my 
Brown  innocent  aides  in  home  and  husbandry. 
Wonder  askance,  What  ails  the  boss?  they  ask, 

Him ,  richest  of  the  rich ,  an  endless  task 
Before  the  earliest  birds  or  servants  stir 
Calls  and  detains  him  daylong  prisoner? 

He,  whose  innumerable  dollars  hewed 

This  cleft  in  the  boar-  and  devil-haunted  wood, 

And  bade  therein,  from  sun  to  seas  and  skies, 

His  many-windowed,  painted  palace  rise 
Red-roofed,  blue-walled,  a  rainbow  on  the  hill, 

A  winder  in  the  forest  glade:  he  still, 

Unthinkable  Aladdin,  dawn  and  dark, 

Scribbles  and  scribbles,  like  a  German  clerk. 

We  see  the  fact,  but  tell,  O  tell  us  why? 

My  reverend  washman  and  wise  butler  cry. 

And  from  their  lips  the  unanswered  questions  drop. 
How  can  he  live  that  does  not  keep  a  shop? 

And  why  does  he ,  being  acclaimed  so  rich, 

Not  dwell  with  other  gentry  on  the  beach  ? 


458 


NEW  POEMS 


But  harbour ,  impiously  brave , 

7n  the  cold ,  uncanny  wood ,  haunt  of  the  fleeing  slave? 
The  sun  and  the  loud  rain  here  alternate: 

Here  in  the  unfathomable  hush,  the  great 
Voice  of  the  wind  makes  a  magnanimous  sound. 
Here,  too,  no  doubt,  the  shouting  doves  abound 
To  be  a  dainty;  here  in  the  twilight  stream 
That  brawls  adown  the  forest,  frequent  gleam 
The  jewel-eyes  of  crawdish.  These  be  good: 

Grant  them !  and  can  the  thing  be  understood  ? 

That  this  white  chief,  whom  no  distress  compels 
Far  from  all  compeers  in  the  mountain  dwells 
And  finds  a  manner  of  living  to  his  wish 
Apart  from  high  society  and  sea  fish? 

Meanwhile  at  times  the  manifold 
Imperishable  perfumes  of  the  past 
And  coloured  pictures  rise  on  me  thick  and  fast: 
And  I  remember  the  white  rime,  the  loud 
Lamplitten  city,  shops,  and  the  changing  crowd. 

And  I  remember  home  and  the  old  time. 

The  winding  river,  the  white  morning  rime, 

The  autumn  robin  by  the  riverside, 

That  pipes  in  the  grey  eve. 

9 

These  rings,1  O  my  beloved  pair, 

For  me  on  your  brown  fingers  wear: 

Each,  a  perpetual  caress 
To  tell  you  of  my  tenderness. 

1  Stevenson  had  three  topaz  rings  made,  topaz  being  the  stone  of  his 
birth  month,  November.  His  initials  were  inscribed  inside  two  of  the 
rings,  and  these  he  gave  to  Mrs.  Stevenson  and  her  daughter. 


NEW  POEMS 


459 


Let — when  at  morning  as  ye  rise 
The  golden  topaz  takes  your  eyes — 
To  each  her  emblem  whisper  sure 
Love  was  awake  an  hour  before. 

Ah  yes !  an  hour  before  ye  woke 
Low  to  my  heart  my  emblem  spoke, 
And  grave,  as  to  renew  an  oath, 

It  I  have  kissed  and  blessed  you  both. 


CLXXIV 

AIR  OF  DIABELLI’S1 

CALL  it  to  mind,  O  my  love, 

Dear  were  your  eyes  as  the  day, 

Bright  as  the  day  and  the  sky; 

Like  the  stream  of  gold  and  the  sky  above. 

Dear  were  your  eyes  in  the  grey; 

We  have  lived,  my  love,  O,  we  have  lived,  my  love  l 
Now  along  the  silent  river,  azure 
Through  the  sky’s  inverted  image 
Softly  swam  the  boat  that  bore  our  love. 

Swiftly  ran  the  shallow  of  our  love 
Through  the  heaven’s  inverted  image 
In  the  reedy  mazes  round  the  river. 

See  along  the  silent  river. 

See  of  old  the  lover’s  shallop  steer. 

Berried  brake  and  reedy  island. 

Heaven  below  and  only  heaven  above. 

1  Diabelli,  an  Austrian  composer  who  died  in  1858. 


460 


NEW  POEMS 


Through  the  sky’s  inverted  image 
Swiftly  swam  the  boat  that  bore  our  love. 

Berried  brake  and  reedy  island 
Mirrored  flower  and  shallop  gliding  by. 

All  the  earth  and  all  the  sky  were  ours, 

Silent  sat  the  wafted  lovers 

Bound  with  grain  and  watched  by  all  the  sky. 

Hand  to  hand  and  eye  to  eye. 

Days  of  April,  airs  of  Eden, 

Call  to  mind  how  bright  the  vanished  angel  hours, 
Golden  hours  of  evening, 

When  our  boat  drew  homeward  filled  with  flowers. 

O  darling,  call  them  to  mind;  love  the  past,  my  love, 
Days  of  April,  airs  of  Eden. 

How  the  glory  died  through  golden  hours, 

And  the  shining  moon  arising; 

How  the  boat  drew  homeward  filled  with  flowers. 

Age  and  winter  close  us  slowly  in. 

Level  river,  cloudless  heaven, 

Islanded  reed  mazes,  silver  weirs; 

How  the  silent  boat  with  silver 
Threads  the  inverted  forest  as  she  goes, 

Broke  the  trembling  green  of  mirrored  trees, 

O,  remember,  and  remember 
How  the  berries  hung  in  garlands. 

Still  in  the  river  see  the  shallop  floats 
Hark !  Chimes  the  falling  oar. 


NEW  POEMS 


461 


Still  in  the  mind 

Hark  to  the  song  of  the  past ! 

Dream,  and  they  pass  in  their  dreams. 

Those  that  loved  of  yore,  O  those  that  loved  of  yore ! 
Hark  through  the  stillness,  O  darling,  hark ! 

Through  it  all  the  ear  of  the  mind 

Knows  the  boat  of  love.  Hark ! 

Chimes  the  falling  oar. 

O  half  in  vain  they  grew  old. 

Now  the  halcyon  days  are  over. 

Age  and  winter  close  us  slowly  round. 

And  these  sounds  at  fall  of  even 
Dim  the  sight  and  muffle  all  the  sound. 

And  at  the  married  fireside,  sleep  of  soul  and  sleep  of 
fancy, 

Joan  and  Darby 

Silence  of  the  world  without  a  sound; 

And  beside  the  winter  faggot 

Joan  and  Darby  sit  and  doze  and  dream  and  wake — 
Dream  they  hear  the  flowing,  singing  river, 

See  the  berries  in  the  island  brake; 

Dream  they  hear  the  weir. 

See  the  gliding  shallop  mar  the  stream. 

Hark !  in  your  dreams  do  you  hear  ? 

Snow  has  filled  the  drifted  forest; 

Ice  has  bound  the  .  .  .  stream. 

Frost  has  bound  our  flowing  river; 

Snow  has  whitened  all  our  island  brake. 


462 


NEW  POEMS 


Berried  brake  and  reedy  island, 

Heaven  below  and  only  heaven  above  azure 
Through  the  sky’s  inverted  image 
Safely  swam  the  boat  that  bore  our  love. 

Dear  were  your  eyes  as  the  day, 

Bright  ran  the  stream,  bright  hung  the  sky  above. 
Days  of  April,  airs  of  Eden. 

How  the  glory  died  through  golden  hours, 

And  the  shining  moon  arising. 

How  the  boat  drew  homeward  filled  with  flowers. 
Bright  were  your  eyes  in  the  night: 

We  have  lived,  my  love 
O,  we  have  loved,  my  love, 

Now  the  .  .  .  days  are  over 

Age  and  winter  close  us  slowly  round. 

Vainly  time  departs,  and  vainly 

Age  and  winter  come  and  close  us  round. 

Hark  the  river’s  long  continuous  sound. 

Hear  the  river  ripples  in  the  reeds. 

Lo,  in  dreams  they  see  their  shallop 
Run  the  lilies  down  and  drown  the  weeds 
Mid  the  sound  of  crackling  faggots. 

So  in  dreams  the  new  created 
Happy  past  returns,  to-day  recedes 
And  they  hear  once  more, 


NEW  POEMS 


463 


From  the  old  years, 

Yesterday  returns,  to-day  recedes, 

And  they  hear  with  aged  hearing 
warbles 

Love’s  own  river  ripple  in  the  weeds. 

And  again  the  lover’s  shallop; 

Lo,  the  shallop  sheds  the  streaming  weeds; 
And  afar  in  foreign  countries 
In  the  ears  of  aged  lovers. 

And  again  in  winter  evens 

Starred  with  lilies  .  .  .  with  stirring  weeds. 

In  these  ears  of  aged  lovers 

Love’s  own  river  ripples  in  the  reeds. 


CLXXV 

DE  EROTIO  PUELLA 

THIS  girl  was  sweeter  than  the  song  of  swans, 
And  daintier  than  the  lamb  upon  the  lawns 
Or  Lucrine  oyster.  She,  the  flower  of  girls, 
Outshone  the  light  of  Erythraean  pearls; 

The  teeth  of  India  that  with  polish  glow, 

The  untouched  lilies  or  the  morning  snow. 

Her  tresses  did  gold-dust  outshine 
And  fair  hair  of  women  of  the  Rhine. 

Compared  to  her  the  peacock  seemed  not  fair, 
The  squirrel  lively,  or  the  phoenix  rare; 

Her  on  whose  pyre  the  smoke  still  hovering  waits 
Her  wdiom  the  greedy  and  unequal  fates 
On  the  sixth  dawning  of  her  natal  day 
My  child-love  and  my  playmate — -snatch t  away. 


464 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXXVI 

I  LOOK  across  the  ocean, 

And  kneel  upon  the  shore, 

I  look  out  seaward — westward, 

My  heart  swells  more  and  more. 

I  see  the  great  new  nation, 

New  spirit  and  new  scope 
Rise  there  from  the  sea’s  round  shoulder, — 
A  splendid  sun  of  hope ! 

I  see  it  and  I  tremble — 

My  voice  is  full  of  tears — 

America  tread  softly, 

You  bear  the  fruit  of  years. 

Tread  softly — you  are  pregnant 
And  growing  near  your  time — 


CLXXVII 

I  AM  a  hunchback,  yellow  faced, — 
A  hateful  sight  to  see, — 

’Tis  all  that  other  men  can  do 
To  pass  and  let  me  be. 

I  am  a  woman, — my  hair  is  white — 
I  was  a  drunkard’s  lass; 

The  gin  dances  in  my  head, — 

I  stumble  as  I  pass. 


NEW  POEMS 


465 


I  am  a  man  that  God  made  at  first, 

And  teachers  tried  to  harm; 

Here,  hunchback,  take  my  friendly  hand, — 
Good  woman,  take  my  arm. 


CLXXVIII 

SONG 


IIGHT  foot  and  tight  foot, 
And  green  grass  spread. 
Early  in  the  morning. 

But  hope  is  on  ahead. 


Brief  day  and  bright  day, 
And  sunset  red, 

Early  in  the  evening, 

The  stars  are  overhead. 


CLXXIX 

THE  NEW  HOUSE 

IS  the  house  not  homely  yet? 

There  let  pleasant  thoughts  be  set: 
With  bright  eyes  and  hurried  feet, 
There  let  severed  friendships  meet, 
There  let  sorrow  learn  to  smile, 

And  sweet  talk  the  nights  beguile. 

Thus  shall  each,  a  friendly  elf, 

Leave  you  something  of  himself, 
Something  dear  and  kind  and  true, 
That  will  stay  and  talk  with  you. 


466 


NEW  POEMS 


They  shall  go,  but  one  and  all 
Leave  their  faces  on  the  wall, 

Leave  brave  words  of  hope  and  love 
Legend  wise  inscribed  above. 


CLXXX 

MEN  marvel  at  the  works  of  man 
And  with  unstinted  praises  sing 
The  greatness  of  some  worldly  thing 
Encompassed  during  one  life’s  span; 

An  empire  built,  kingdom  born. 

And  straightway  men  sound  man’s  own  horn. 

The  human  brain’s  a  wondrous  work, 

So  chant  the  sages  and  the  deans — 

Those  thought  and  labour  go-betweens, 

Who  ever  life’s  deep  mysteries  shirk. 

A  steel  ribbed  ship,  an  engine  new — 

Ah,  mighty  things  strong  man  doth  do ! 

Man  rears  great  piles  of  chiselled  stone, 

And  builds  across  the  roaring  streams, 

And  tunnels  mountains  while  he  dreams 
Of  sterner  tasks  to  do  alone. 

’Tis  I,  he  says,  these  things  have  wrought — 
Through  darkness  to  the  heights  I’ve  fought. 

But  comes  a  time  when  in  his  might 
The  man  of  sceptre  or  of  gold 
Is  laid  upon  the  marble  cold. 

And  soul  within  takes  hurried  flight. 

The  wondrous  man  is  but  a  clod 
As  lowly  as  the  earth  he  trod. 


NEW  POEMS 


467 


Far  in  the  realm  of  the  unknown 
A  little  light  has  found  its  way 
A  flicker  in  the  newer  day 
That  hallows  round  a  Godly  throne; 
Once  housed  in  the  Eternal  Land 
The  light  perceives  the  Master  Hand, 


CLXXXI 

TO  MASTER  ANDREW  LANG 

ON  HIS  RE-EDITING  OF  “ CUPID  AND  PSYCHE” 

YOU,  that  are  much  a  fisher  in  the  pool 

Of  things  forgotten,  and  from  thence  bring  up 
Gold  of  old  song,  and  diamonds  of  dead  speech, 

The  scholar,  and  the  angler,  and  the  friend 
Of  the  pale  past,  this  unremembered  tale 
Restore,  and  this  dead  author  re-inspire; 

And  lo,  Oblivion  the  iniquitous 
Remembers,  and  the  stone  is  rolled  away. 

And  he,  the  long  asleep,  sees  once  again 
The  busy  bookshop,  once  again  is  read. 

Brave  as  at  first,  in  his  new  garb  of  print. 

Shines  forth  the  Elizabethan.  But  when  Death, 
The  unforgettable  shepherd,  shall  have  come 
And  numbered  us  with  these,  the  numberless, 

The  inheritors  of  slumber  and  neglect — 

O  correspondent  of  the  immortal  dead. 

Shall  any  pious  hand  re-edit  us? 


468 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXXXII 


TO  THE  STORMY  PETREL 


TO  HIS  WIFE,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 


EVER  perilous 


And  precious,  like  an  ember  from  the  fire 
Or  gem  from  a  volcano,  we  to-day 
When  the  drums  of  war  reverberate  in  the  land 
And  every  face  is  for  the  battle  blacked — 

No  less  the  sky,  that  over  sodden  woods 
Menaces  now  in  the  disconsolate  calm 
The  hurly-burly  of  the  hurricane. 

Do  now  most  fitly  celebrate  your  day. 

Yet  amid  turmoil  keep  for  me,  my  dear, 

The  kind  domestic  faggot.  Let  the  hearth 
Shine  ever  as  (I  praise  my  honest  gods) 

In  peace  and  tempest  it  has  ever  shone. 


CLXXXIII 


THE  indefensible  impulse  of  my  blood 1 

Surrounds  me  sleeping  in  this  isle;  and  I 
Behold  rain  falling  and  the  rainbow  dawn 
On  Lammermuir;  and  hearkening  heard  again. 

In  my  precipitous  city,  beaten  bells 
Winnow  the  keen  sea  wind.  So  this  I  wrote 
Of  my  own  race  and  place:  which  being  done, 
Take  thou  the  writing.  True  it  is,  for  who 

1  These  lines  are  found  in  the  manuscript  of  Weir  of  Hermiston.  They 
suggest  a  projected  dedication  of  the  book  to  Mrs.  Stevenson. 


NEW  POEMS 


469 


Burnished  the  sword,  breathed  on  the  damp  coal, 
Held  still  the  target  higher,  chary  of  praise 
And  prodigal  of  censure — who  but  thou? 

So  here  in  the  end,  if  this  in  the  least  be  well, 

If  any  deed  be  done,  if  any  fire 

Live  in  the  imperfect  page,  the  praise  be  thine ! 

CLXXXIV 

WHO  would  think,  herein  to  look, 

That  from  these  exiguous  bounds, 

I  have  dug  a  printed  book 
And  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  ? 

Thus  do  those  who  trust  the  Lord 
Go  rejoicing  on  their  way 
And  receive  a  great  reward 
For  having  been  so  kind  as  lay. 

Had  the  fun  of  the  voyage 
Had  the  sport  of  the  boats 
Who  could  have  hoped  in  addition 
The  pleasure  of  fing’ring  the  notes? 

Yes,  sir,  I  wrote  the  book;  I  own  the  fact; 

It  was  perhaps,  sir,  an  unworthy  act. 

Have  you  perused  it,  sir  ? — You  have  ? — indeed  ! 
Then  between  you  and  me  there  no  debate  is. 

I  did  a  silly  act,  but  I  was  fee’d; 

You  did  a  sillier,  and  you  did  it  gratis ! 


470 


NEW  POEMS 


CLXXXV 

EPISTLE  TO  CHARLES  BAXTER 

NOO  lyart  leaves  blaw  ower  the  green, 
Red  are  the  bonny  woods  o’  Dean, 
An’  here  we’re  back  in  Embro,  freen’. 

To  pass  the  winter. 

Whilk  noo,  wi’  frosts  afore,  draws  in, 

An’  snaws  ahint  her. 

I’ve  seen ’s  hae  days  to  fricht  us  a’, 

The  Pentlands  poothered  weel  wi’  snaw, 
The  ways  half-smoored  wi’  liquid  thaw. 

An’  half-congealin’. 

The  snell  an’  scowtherin’  norther  blaw 
Frae  blae  Brunteelan’. 

I’ve  seen  ’s  been  unco  sweir  to  sally, 

And  at  the  door-cheeks  daff  an’  dally. 

Seen  ’s  daidle  thus  an’  shilly-shally 
For  near  a  minute — 

Sae  cauld  the  wind  blew  up  the  valley, 

The  deil  was  in  it ! — 

Syne  spread  the  silk  an’  tak  the  gate, 

In  blast  an’  blaudin’,  rain,  deil  hae  ’t ! 

The  hale  toon  glintin’,  stane  an’  slate, 

Wi’  cauld  an’  weet. 

An’  to  the  Court,  gin  we  ’se  be  late, 

Bicker  oor  feet. 


NEW  POEMS 


471 


And  at  the  Court,  tae,  aft  I  saw 
Whaur  Advocates  by  twa  an’  twa 
Gang  gesterin’  end  to  end  the  ha’ 

In  weeg  an’  goon, 

To  crack  o’  what  ye  wull  but  Law 
The  hale  forenoon. 

That  muckle  ha’,  maist  like  a  kirk, 

I’ve  kent  at  braid  mid-day  sae  mirk 
Ye’d  seen  white  weegs  an’  faces  lurk 
Like  ghaists  frae  Hell, 

But  whether  Christian  ghaists  or  Turk, 
Deil  ane  could  tell. 

The  three  fires  lunted  in  the  gloom, 
The  wind  blew  like  the  blast  o’  doom, 
The  rain  upo’  the  roof  abune 
Played  Peter  Dick — 

Ye  wad  nae’d  licht  enough  i’  the  room 
Your  teeth  to  pick ! 

But,  freend,  ye  ken  how  me  an’  you. 
The  ling-lang  lanely  winter  through, 
Keep’d  a  guid  speerit  up,  an’  true 
To  lore  Horatian, 

We  aye  the  ither  bottle  drew 
To  inclination. 


472 


NEW  POEMS 


Sae  let  us  in  the  cornin’  days 
Stand  sicker  on  our  auncient  ways — 
The  strauchtest  road  in  a’  the  maze 
Since  Eve  ate  apples; 

An’  let  the  winter  weet  our  cla’es — 
We’ll  weet  oor  thrapples. 

Edinburgh,  October,  1875. 


CLXXXVI 


AD  MARTIAL  EM 


OD  knows,  my  Martial,  if  we  two  could  be 


To  enjoy  our  days  set  wholly  free; 

To  the  true  life  together  bend  our  mind, 

And  take  a  furlough  from  the  falser  kind, 

No  rich  saloon,  nor  palace  of  the  great 
Nor  suit  at  law  should  trouble  our  estate; 

On  no  vainglorious  statues  should  we  look. 

But  of  a  walk,  a  talk,  a  little  book, 

Baths,  wells,  and  meads  and  the  verandah  shade, 
Let  all  our  travels  and  our  toils  be  made. 

Now  neither  lives  unto  himself,  alas ! 

And  the  good  suns  we  see,  that  flash  and  pass 
And  perish;  and  the  bell  that  knells  them  cries, 
“Another  gone:  O  when  will  ye  arise?” 


NEW  POEMS 


473 


CLXXXVII 


DE  M.  ANTONIO 


N  OW,  Antonius,  in  a  smiling  age. 

Counts  of  his  life  the  fifteenth  finished  stage. 
The  rounded  days  and  the  safe  years  he  sees 
Nor  fears  death’s  water  mounting  round  his  knees. 
To  him  remembering  not  one  day  is  sad, 

Not  one  but  that  its  memory  makes  him  glad. 

So  good  men  lengthen  life;  and  to  recall 
The  past,  is  to  have  twice  enjoyed  it  all. 


CLXXXVII  I 

NOT  roses  to  the  rose,  I  trow, 

The  thistle  sends,  nor  to  the  bee 
Do  wasps  bring  honey.  Wherefore  now 
Should  Locker  ask  a  verse  from  me? 

Martial,  perchance, — but  he  is  dead, 

And  Herrick  now  must  rhyme  no  more; 
Still  burning  with  the  muse,  they  tread 
(And  arm  in  arm)  the  shadowy  shore. 

They,  if  they  lived,  with  dainty  hand, 

To  music  as  of  mountain  brooks, 

Might  bring  you  worthy  words  to  stand 
Unshamed,  dear  Locker,  in  your  books. 

But  tho’  these  fathers  of  your  race 
Be  gone  before,  yourself  a  sire, 

To-day  you  see  before  your  face 

Your  stalwart  youngsters  touch  the  lyre. 


474 


NEW  POEMS 


On  these — on  Lang,  or  Dobson — call, 
Long  leaders  of  the  songful  feast. 
They  lend  a  verse  your  laughing  fall — 
A  verse  they  owe  you  at  the  least. 


CLXXXIX 

TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL1 


ALL  on  a  day  of  gold  and  blue, 

-  Hearken  the  children  calling  you ! 
All  on  a  day  of  blue  and  gold, 

Here  for  your  baby  hands  to  hold, 
Flowers  and  fruit  and  fancy  bread 
Under  the  breathing  trees  are  spread. 
Here  are  kind  paths  for  little  feet: 
Follow  them  little  darling ! 


CXC 

TO  MISS  RAWLINSON 


OF  the  many  flowers  you  brought  me, 
Only  some  were  meant  to  stay. 
And  the  flower  I  thought  the  sweetest 
Was  the  flower  that  went  away. 


Of  the  many  flowers  you  brought  me, 

All  were  fair  and  fresh  and  gay, 

But  the  flower  I  thought  the  sweetest 
Was  the  blossom  of  the  May. 

1  Written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 


NEW  POEMS 


475 


CXCI 

THE  pleasant  river  gushes 

Among  the  meadows  green; 
At  home  the  author  tushes; 

For  him  it  flows  unseen. 

The  Birds  among  the  Bushes 
May  wanton  on  the  spray; 

But  vain  for  him  who  tushes 
The  brightness  of  the  day ! 

The  frog  among  the  rushes 
Sits  singing  in  the  blue. 

By  ’r  la’kin !  but  these  tushes 
Are  wearisome  to  do  ! 

The  task  entirely  crushes 
The  spirit  of  the  bard: 

God  pity  him  who  tushes — 

His  task  is  very  hard. 

The  filthy  gutter  slushes, 

The  clouds  are  full  of  rain, 

But  doomed  is  he  who  tushes 
To  tush  and  tush  again. 

At  morn  with  his  hair-brushes, 

Still  “tush”  he  says,  and  weeps. 
At  night  again  he  tushes, 

And  tushes  till  he  sleeps. 


476 


NEW  POEMS 


And  when  at  length  he  pushes 
Beyond  the  river  dark — 

’Las,  to  the  man  who  tushes, 

“Tush”  shall  be  God’s  remark! 

CXCII 

TO  H.  F.  BROWN 

BRAVE  lads  in  olden  musical  centuries 
Sang,  night  by  night,  adorable  choruses, 

Sat  late  by  alehouse  doors  in  April 
Chaunting  in  song  as  the  moon  was  rising: 

Moon-seen  and  merry,  under  the  trellises, 
Flush-faced  they  played  with  old  polysyllables; 
Spring  scents  inspired,  old  wine  diluted, 

Love  and  Apollo  were  there  to  chorus. 

Now  these,  the  songs,  remain  to  eternity, 

Those,  only  those,  the  bountiful  choristers 
Gone — those  are  gone,  those  unremembered 
Sleep  and  are  silent  in  earth  for  ever. 

So  man  himself  appears  and  evanishes, 

So  smiles  and  goes;  as  wanderers  halting  at 

Some  green-embowered  house,  play  their  music. 
Play  and  are  gone  on  the  windy  highway; 

Yet  dwells  the  strain  enshrined  in  the  memory 
Long  after  they  departed  eternally, 

Forth-faring  tow’rd  far  mountain  summits, 
Cities  of  men  on  the  sounding  Ocean. 


NEW  POEMS 


477 


Youth  sang  the  song  in  years  immemorial; 

Brave  chanticleer,  he  sang  and  was  beautiful; 

Bird -haunted,  green  tree-tops  in  spring-time 
Heard  and  were  pleased  by  the  voice  of  singing; 

Youth  goes,  and  leaves  behind  him  a  prodigy — 
Songs  sent  from  thee  afar  from  Venetian 
Sea-grey  lagunes,  sea-paven  highways, 

Dear  to  me  here  in  my  Alpine  exile. 


CXCIII 

TO  W.  E.  HENLEY 


DEAR  HEN  LEY,  with  a  pig’s  snout  on 
I  am  starting  for  London, 

Where  I  likely  shall  arrive. 

On  Saturday,  if  still  alive: 

Perhaps  your  pirate  doctor  might 
See  me  on  Sunday?  If  all’s  right, 

I  should  then  lunch  with  you  and  with  she 
Who’s  dearer  to  you  than  you  are  to  me. 

I  shall  remain  but  little  time 
In  London,  as  a  wretched  clime, 

But  not  so  wretched  (for  none  are) 

As  that  of  beastly  old  Braemar. 

My  doctor  sends  me  skipping.  I 
Have  many  facts  to  meet  your  eye. 

My  pig’s  snout  now  upon  my  face: 

And  I  inhale  with  fishy  grace, 

My  gills  outflapping  right  and  left, 

01.  pin.  sylvest.1  I  am  bereft 

1  01.  pin.  sylvest.  This  refers  to  an  ori-nasal  respirator  for  the  inhala¬ 
tion  of  pine-wood  oil,  oleum  pini  sylvestris. 


478 


NEW  POEMS 


Of  a  great  deal  of  charm  by  this — 
Not  quite  the  bull’s  eye  for  a  kiss — 
But  like  the  gnome  of  olden  time 
Or  bogey  in  a  pantomime. 

For  ladies’  love  I  once  was  fit, 

But  now  am  rather  out  of  it. 
Where’er  I  go,  revolted  curs 
Snap  round  my  military  spurs; 

The  children  all  retire  in  fits 
And  scream  their  bellowses  to  bits. 
Little  I  care:  the  worst’s  been  done: 
Now  let  the  cold  impoverished  sun 
Drop  frozen  from  his  orbit;  let 
Fury  and  fire,  cold,  wind,  and  wet. 
And  cataclysmal  mad  reverses 
Rage  through  the  federate  universes; 
Let  Lawson  triumph,  cakes  and  ale. 
Whiskey  and  hock  and  claret  fail; — 
Tobacco,  love,  and  letters  perish, 
With  all  that  any  man  could  cherish: 
You  it  may  touch,  not  me.  I  dwell 
Too  deep  already — deep  in  hell; 

And  nothing  can  befall,  O  damn ! 

To  make  me  uglier  than  I  am. 


CXCIV 


O  HENLEY,  in  my  hours  of  ease 

You  may  say  anything  you  please, 
But  when  I  join  the  Muses’  revel, 

Begad,  I  wish  you  at  the  devil ! 

In  vain  my  verse  I  plane  and  bevel, 


NEW  POEMS 


479 


Like  Banville’s  rhyming  devotees; 

In  vain  by  many  an  artful  swivel 
Lug  in  my  meaning  by  degrees; 

I’m  sure  to  hear  my  Henley  cavil; 

And  grovelling  prostrate  on  my  knees, 
Devote  his  body  to  the  seas. 

His  correspondence  to  the  devil ! 

CXCV 

ALL  things  on  earth  and  sea, 

•  All  that  the  white  stars  see, 

Turns  about  you  and  me. 

And  where  we  two  are  not, 

Is  darkness  like  a  blot 
And  life  and  love  forgot. 

But  when  we  pass  that  way. 

The  night  breaks  into  day, 

The  year  breaks  into  May. 

The  earth  through  all  her  bowers 
Carols  and  breathes  and  flowers 
About  this  love  of  ours. 

CXCVI 

ON  SOME  GHOSTLY  COMPANIONS 

AT  A  SPA 

I  HAD  an  evil  day  when  I 
To  Strathpeffer  drew  anigh. 

For  there  I  found  no  human  soul. 

But  ogres  occupied  the  whole. 


480 


NEW  POEMS 


They  had  at  first  a  human  air 
In  coats  and  flannel  underwear. 

They  rose  and  walked  upon  their  feet 
And  filled  their  bellies  full  of  meat, 

Then  wiped  their  lips  when  they  had  done — 
But  they  were  ogres  every  one. 

Each  issuing  from  his  secret  bower 
I  marked  them  in  the  morning  hour. 

By  limp  and  totter,  lisp  and  droop 
I  singled  each  one  from  the  group. 

Detected  ogres,  from  my  sight 
Depart  to  your  congenial  night 
From  these  fair  vales:  from  this  fair  day 
Fleet,  spectres,  on  your  downward  way, 

Like  changing  figures  in  a  dream 
To  Muttonhole  and  Pittenweem ! 

Or,  as  by  harmony  divine 

The  devils  quartered  in  the  swine, 

If  any  baser  place  exist 
In  God’s  great  registration  list — 

Some  den  with  wallow  and  a  trough — 

Find  it,  ye  ogres,  and  be  off  ? 

CXCVII 

TO  CHARLES  BAXTER 

BLAME  me  not  that  this  epistle 
Is  the  first  you  have  from  me. 

Idleness  has  held  me  fettered. 

But  at  last  the  times  are  bettered 
And  once  more  I  wet  my  whistle 
Here  in  France,  beside  the  sea. 


NEW  POEMS 


481 


All  the  green  and  idle  weather 
I  have  had  in  sun  and  shower 
Such  an  easy  warm  subsistence, 
Such  an  indolent  existence 
I  should  find  it  hard  to  sever 

Day  from  day  and  hour  from  hour. 

Many  a  tract-provided  ranter 
May  upbraid  me,  dark  and  sour, 
Many  a  bland  Utilitarian 
Or  excited  Millenarian, 

— “Pereunt  et  imputantur 

You  must  speak  to  every  hour.” 

But  the  very  term’s  deceptive, 

You,  at  least,  my  friend,  will  see, 
That  in  sunny  grassy  meadows 
Trailed  across  by  moving  shadows 
To  be  actively  receptive 
Is  as  much  as  man  can  be. 

He  that  all  the  winter  grapples 
Difficulties,  thrust  and  ward — 

Needs  to  cheer  him  thro’  his  duty 
Memories  of  sun  and  beauty 
Orchards  with  the  russet  apples 
Lying  scattered  on  the  sward. 


482 


NEW  POEMS 


Many  such  I  keep  in  prison, 

Keep  them  here  at  heart  unseen, 

Till  my  muse  again  rehearses 
Long  years  hence,  and  in  my  verses 
You  shall  meet  them  re-arisen 
Ever  comely,  ever  green. 

You  know  how  they  never  perish, 

How,  in  time  of  later  art, 

Memories  consecrate  and  sweeten 
These  defaced  and  tempest-beaten 
Flowers  of  former  years  we  cherish. 

Half  a  life,  against  our  heart. 

Most,  those  love-fruits  withered  greenly, 
Those  frail,  sickly  amourettes, 

How  they  brighten  with  the  distance 
Take  new  strength  and  new  existence 
Till  we  see  them  sitting  queenly 
Crowned  and  courted  by  regrets ! 

All  that  loveliest  and  best  is. 

Aureole-fashion  round  their  heads, 

They  that  looked  in  life  but  plainly. 
How  they  stir  our  spirits  vainly 
When  they  come  to  us  Alcest- 
Like,  returning  from  the  dead ! 

Not  the  old  love  but  another, 

Bright  she  comes  at  Memory’s  call 
Our  forgotten  vows  reviving 


NEW  POEMS 


483 


To  a  newer,  livelier  living, 

As  the  dead  child  to  the  mother 
Seems  the  fairest  child  of  all. 

Thus  our  Goethe,  sacred  master. 

Travelling  backward  thro’  his  youth, 
Surely  wandered  wrong  in  trying 
To  renew  the  old,  undying 
Loves  that  cling  in  memory  faster 
Than  they  ever  lived  in  truth. 


CXCVIII 

TO  HENRY  JAMES 

ADELA,  Adela,  Adela  Chart, 

*  What  have  you  done  to  my  elderly  heart? 

Of  all  the  ladies  of  paper  and  ink 
I  count  you  the  paragon,  call  you  the  pink. 

The  word  of  your  brother  depicts  you  in  part: 

“You  raving  maniac !”  Adela  Chart: 

But  in  all  the  asylums  that  cumber  the  ground, 

So  delightful  a  maniac  was  ne’er  to  be  found. 

I  pore  on  you,  dote  on  you,  clasp  you  to  heart, 

I  laud,  love,  and  laugh  at  you,  Adela  Chart, 

And  thank  my  dear  Maker  the  while  I  admire 
That  I  can  be  neither  your  husband  nor  sire. 

Your  husband’s,  your  sire’s  were  a  difficult  part; 
You’re  a  byway  to  suicide,  Adela  Chart; 

But  to  read  of,  depicted  by  exquisite  James, 

O,  sure  you’re  the  flower  and  quintessence  of  dames. 


484 


NEW  POEMS 

Eructavit  cor  meum. 


Though  oft  I’ve  been  touched  by  the  volatile  dart 
To  none  have  I  grovelled  but  Adela  Chart. 

There  are  passable  ladies,  no  question,  in  art — 

But  where  is  the  marrow  of  Adela  Chart? 

I  dreamed  that  to  Tyburn  I  passed  in  the  cart — 

I  dreamed  I  was  married  to  Adela  Chart: 

From  the  first  I  awoke  with  a  palpable  start, 

The  second  dumbfoundered  me,  Adela  Chart ! 

CXCIX 

HERE  you  rest  among  the  valleys,  maiden  known  to 
but  a  few. 

Here  you  sleep  unsighing,  but  how  oft  of  yore  you 
sighed ! 

And  how  oft  your  feet  elastic  trod  a  measure  in  the  dew 
On  a  green  beside  the  river  ere  you  died ! 

Where  are  now  the  country  lovers  whom  you  trembled  to 
be  near — 

Who,  with  shy  advances,  in  the  falling  eventide, 
Grasped  thee  tighter  at  your  fingers,  whispered  lowlier  in 
your  ear, 

On  a  green  beside  the  river  ere  you  died? 

\ 

All  the  sweet  old  country  dancers  who  went  round  with 
you  in  tune, 

Dancing,  flushed  and  silent,  in  the  silent  eventide, 

All  departed  by  enchantment  at  the  rising  of  the  moon 
From  the  green  beside  the  river  when  you  died. 


NEW  POEMS 


485 


CC 


AND  thorns,  but  did  the  sculptor  spare 
■  Sharp  steel  upon  the  marble,  ere, 
After  long  vigils  and  much  care 
And  cruel  discipline  of  blows, 

From  the  dead  stone  the  statue  rose? 

Think  you  I  grudge  the  seed,  who  see 
Broad  armed  the  consummated  tree? 

Or  would  go  back  if  it  might  be 

To  some  old  geologic  time 

With  Saurians  wallowing  in  fat  slime, 

Before  the  rivers  and  the  rains 
Had  fashioned,  and  made  fair  with  Plains 
And  shadowy  places  fresh  with  flowers, 
This  green  and  quiet  world  of  ours. 

Where,  as  the  grass  in  Springtime  heals 
The  furrow  of  the  winter’s  wheels, 

Serene  maturity  conceals 

All  memory  on  the  perfect  earth 

Of  the  bygone  tempestuous  birth. 


CCI 


MY  brain  swims  empty  and  light 
Like  a  nut  on  a  sea  of  oil; 

And  an  atmosphere  of  quiet 

Wraps  me  about  from  the  turmoil  and  clamour  of  life. 


486 


NEW  POEMS 


I  stand  apart  from  living. 

Apart  and  holy  I  stand, 

In  my  new-gained  growth  of  idleness,  I  stand, 

As  stood  the  Shekinah  of  yore  in  the  holy  of  holies. 

I  walk  the  streets  smoking  my  pipe 
And  I  love  the  dallying  shop-girl 

That  leans  with  rounded  stern  to  look  at  the  fashions; 
And  I  hate  the  bustling  citizen, 

The  eager  and  hurrying  man  of  affairs  I  hate, 

Because  he  bears  his  intolerance  writ  on  his  face 
And  every  movement  and  word  of  him  tells  me  how  much 
he  hates  me. 

I  love  night  in  the  city. 

The  lighted  streets  and  the  swinging  gait  of  harlots. 

I  love  cool  pale  morning. 

In  the  empty  bye-streets, 

With  only  here  and  there  a  female  figure, 

A  slavey  with  lifted  dress  and  the  key  in  her  hand, 

A  girl  or  two  at  play  in  a  corner  of  waste-land 
Tumbling  and  showing  their  legs  and  crying  out  to  me 
loosely. 

CCII 

THE  LIGHT-KEEPER 

1 

THE  brilliant  kernel  of  the  night. 

The  flaming  lightroom  circles  me: 

I  sit  within  a  blaze  of  light 
Held  high  above  the  dusky  sea. 


NEW  POEMS 


487 


Far  off  the  surf  doth  break  and  roar 
Along  bleak  miles  of  moonlit  shore, 

Where  through  the  tides  the  tumbling  wave 
Falls  in  an  avalanche  of  foam 
And  drives  its  churned  waters  home 
Up  many  an  undercliff  and  cave. 

The  clear  bell  chimes:  the  clockworks  strain, 
The  turning  lenses  flash  and  pass, 

Frame  turning  within  glittering  frame 
With  frosty  gleam  of  moving  glass: 

Unseen  by  me,  each  dusky  hour 
The  sea-waves  welter  up  the  tower 
Or  in  the  ebb  subside  again; 

And  ever  and  anon  all  night, 

Drawn  from  afar  by  charm  of  light, 

A  sea-bird  beats  against  the  pane. 

And  lastly  when  dawn  ends  the  night 
And  belts  the  semi-orb  of  sea, 

The  tall,  pale  pharos  in  the  light 

Looks  white  and  spectral  as  may  be. 

The  early  ebb  is  out:  the  green 
Straight  belt  of  sea-weed  now  is  seen, 

That  round  the  basement  of  the  tower 
Marks  out  the  interspace  of  tide; 

And  watching  men  are  heavy-eyed, 

And  sleepless  lips  are  dry  and  sour. 

The  night  is  over  like  a  dream: 

The  sea-birds  cry  and  dip  themselves; 

And  in  the  early  sunlight,  steam 


488 


NEW  POEMS 


The  newly  bared  and  dripping  shelves, 
Around  whose  verge  the  glassy  wave 
With  lisping  wash  is  heard  to  lave; 

While,  on  the  white  tower  lifted  high, 
With  yellow  light  in  faded  glass 
The  circling  lenses  flash  and  pass 
And  sickly  shine  against  the  sky. 

1869, 


2 

As  the  steady  lenses  circle 
With  a  frosty  gleam  of  glass; 

And  the  clear  bell  chimes, 

And  the  oil  brims  over  the  lip  of  the  burner. 
Quiet  and  still  at  his  desk, 

The  lonely  Light-Keeper 
Holds  his  vigil. 

Lured  from  afar, 

The  bewildered  sea-gull  beats 
Dully  against  the  lantern; 

Yet  he  stirs  not,  lifts  not  his  head 
From  the  desk  where  he  reads, 

Lifts  not  his  eyes  to  see 
The  chill  blind  circle  of  night 
Watching  him  through  the  panes. 

This  is  his  country’s  guardian, 

The  outmost  sentry  of  peace. 

This  is  the  man, 

Who  gives  up  all  that  is  lovely  in  living 
For  the  means  to  live. 


NEW  POEMS 


489 


Poetry  cunningly  gilds 
The  life  of  the  Light-Keeper, 

Held  on  high  in  the  blackness 
In  the  burning  kernel  of  night. 
The  seaman  sees  and  blesses  him: 
The  Poet,  deep  in  a  sonnet. 
Numbers  his  inky  fingers 
Fitly  to  praise  him; 

Only  we  behold  him. 

Sitting,  patient  and  stolid, 

Martyr  to  a  salary. 

1870. 


CCIII 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODI AS 

THREE  yellow  slaves  were  set  to  swing 
The  doorway  curtain  to  and  fro, 
With  rustle  of  light  folds  and  ring 
Of  little  bells  that  hung  below; 

The  still,  hot  night  was  tempered  so. 

And  ever,  from  the  carven  bed, 

She  watched  the  labour  of  the  men; 

And  saw  the  band  of  moonlight  spread, 
Leap  up  upon  her  feet  and  then 
Leap  down  upon  the  floor  again; 


490 


NEW  POEMS 


And  ever,  vexed  with  heat  and  doubt. 
Below  the  burthen  of  their  shawls, 

The  still  grey  olives  saw  without 
And  glimmer  of  white  garden  walls, 
Between  the  alternate  curtain  falls. 

What  ailed  the  dainty  lady  then, 

The  dainty  lady,  fair  and  sweet? 

•  Unseen  of  these  three  silent  men, 

A  something  lay  upon  her  feet, 

Not  comely  for  such  eyes  to  meet. 

She  saw  a  golden  salver  there 
And,  laid  upon  it,  on  the  bed, 

The  white  teeth  showing  keen  and  bare 
Between  the  sundered  lips,  a  head 
Sallow  and  horrible  and  dead. 

She  saw  upon  the  sallow  cheek 

Bust-coloured  blood-stains;  and  the  eye 
Her  frightened  glances  seemed  to  seek 
Half-lifting  its  blue  lid  on  high, 
Watching  her,  horrible  and  sly. 

Thus  spake  she:  “ Once  again  that  head! 

“I  ate  too  much  pilau  to-night , 

“My  mother  and  the  eunuchs  said. 

“Well,  I  can  take  a  hint  aright — 
“To-morrow’s  supper  shall  be  light.” 


NEW  POEMS 


491 


CCIV 

THE  CRUEL  MISTRESS 

HERE  let  me  rest,  here  nurse  the  uneasy  qualm 
That  yearns  within  me; 

And  to  the  heaped-up  sea, 

Sun-spangled  in  the  quiet  afternoon, 

Sing  my  devotions. 

In  the  sun,  at  the  edge  of  the  down, 

The  whin-pods  cackle 
In  desultory  volleys; 

And  the  bank  breathes  in  my  face 
Its  hot  sweet  breath — 

Breath  that  stirs  and  kindles, 

Lights  that  suggest,  not  satisfy — 

Is  there  never  in  life  or  nature 
An  opiate  for  desire  ? 

Has  everything  here  a  voice, 

Saying  “ 1  am  not  the  goal; 

Nature  is  not  to  be  looked  at  alone; 

Her  breath ,  like  the  breath  of  a  mistress , 

Her  breath  also , 

Parches  the  spirit  with  longing 
Sick  and  enervating  longing 

Well,  let  the  matter  rest. 

I  rise  and  brush  the  windle-straws 

Off  my  clothes;  and  lighting  another  pipe 

Stretch  myself  over  the  down. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  nature ! 

I  turn  my  back  on  the  sun 


NEW  POEMS 


492 

And  face  from  the  grey  new  town  at  the  foot  of  the  bay. 
I  know  an  amber  lady 
Who  has  her  abode 
At  the  lips  of  the  street 
In  prisons  of  coloured  glass. 

I  had  rather  die  of  her  love 
Than  sicken  for  you,  O  Nature ! 

Better  be  drunk  and  merry 
Than  dreaming  awake ! 

Better  be  Falstaff  than  Obermann ! 


ccv 

STORM 


THE  narrow  lanes  are  vacant  and  wet; 

The  rough  wind  bullies  and  blusters  about  the  town¬ 
ship. 

And  spins  the  vane  on  the  tower 
And  chases  the  scurrying  leaves, 

And  the  straw  in  the  damp  innyard. 

See — a  girl  passes 

Tripping  gingerly  over  the  pools, 

And  under  her  lifted  dress 
I  catch  the  gleam  of  a  comely,  stockinged  leg. 

Pah !  the  room  stifles  me, 

Reeking  of  stale  tobacco — 

With  the  four  black  mealy  horrible  prints 
After  Landseer’s  pictures. 

I  will  go  out. 


\ 


NEW  POEMS  493 

Here  the  free  wind  comes  with  a  fuller  circle. 

Sings,  like  an  angry  wasp,  in  the  straining  grass 
Sings  and  whistles; 

And  the  hurried  flow  of  rain 
Scourges  my  face  and  passes. 

Behind  me,  clustered  together,  the  rain-wet  roofs  of  the 
town 

Shine,  and  the  light  vane  shines  as  it  veers 
In  the  long  pale  finger  of  sun  that  hurries  across  them  to 
me. 

The  fresh  salt  air  is  keen  in  my  nostrils. 

And  far  down  the  shining  sand 
Foam  and  thunder 

And  take  the  shape  of  the  bay  in  eager  mirth 
The  white-head  hungry  billows. 

The  earth  shakes 

As  the  semicircle  of  waters 

Stoops  and  casts  itself  down; 

And  far  outside  in  the  open, 

Wandering  gleams  of  sunshine 

Show  us  the  ordered  horde  that  hurries  to  follow. 

Ei !  merry  companions, 

Your  madness  infects  me. 

My  whole  soul  rises  and  falls  and  leaps  and  tumbles  with 
you! 

I  shout  aloud  and  incite  you,  0  white-headed  merry  com¬ 
panions. 

The  sight  of  you  alone  is  better  than  drinking. 

The  brazen  band  is  loosened  from  off  my  forehead; 

My  breast  and  my  brain  are  moistened  and  cool; 

And  still  I  yell  in  answer 


494 


NEW  POEMS 


To  your  hoarse  inarticulate  voices, 

O  big,  strong,  bullying,  boisterous  waves, 

That  are  of  all  things  in  nature  the  nearest  thoughts  to 
human, 

Because  you  are  wicked  and  foolish. 

Mad  and  destructive. 


CCVI 

STORMY  NIGHTS 

I  CRY  out  war  to  those  who  spend  their  utmost. 
Trying  to  substitute  a  vain  regret 
For  childhood’s  vanished  moods, 

Instead  of  a  full  manly  satisfaction 
In  new  development. 

Their  words  are  vain  as  the  lost  shouts. 

The  wasted  breath  of  solitary  hunters 
That  are  far  buried  in  primeval  woods — 

Clamour  that  dies  in  silence, 

Cries  that  bring  back  no  answer 

But  the  great  voice  of  the  wind-shaken  forest, 

Mocking  despair. 

No — they  will  get  no  answer; 

For  I  too  recollect, 

I  recollect  and  love  my  perished  childhood. 
Perfectly  love  and  keenly  recollect; 

I  too  remember;  and  if  it  could  be 
Would  not  recall  it. 


NEW  POEMS 


495 


Do  I  not  know,  how,  nightly,  on  my  bed 
The  palpable  close  darkness  shutting  round  me. 
How  my  small  heart  went  forth  to  evil  things, 

How  all  the  possibilities  of  sin 
That  were  yet  present  to  my  innocence 
Bound  me  too  narrowly, 

And  how  my  spirit  beat 

The  cage  of  its  compulsive  purity: 

How — my  eyes  fixed, 

My  shot  lip  tremulous  between  my  fingers 
I  fashioned  for  myself  new  modes  of  crime. 

Created  for  myself  with  pain  and  labour 
The  evil  that  the  cobwebs  of  society, 

The  comely  secrecies  of  education, 

Had  made  an  itching  mystery  to  me  ward. 

Do  I  not  know  again, 

When  the  great  winds  broke  loose  and  went  abroad 
At  night  in  the  lighted  town — 

Ah !  then  it  was  different — 

Then,  when  I  seemed  to  hear 

The  storm  go  by  me  like  a  cloak-wrapt  horseman 

Stooping  over  the  saddle — 

Go  by,  and  come  again  and  yet  again. 

Like  some  one  riding  with  a  pardon, 

And  ever  baffled,  ever  shut  from  passage: — 

Then  when  the  house  shook  and  a  horde  of  noises 
Came  out  and  clattered  over  me  all  night, — 

Then,  would  my  heart  stand  still. 

My  hair  creep  fearfully  upon  my  head 
And,  with  my  tear-wet  face 
Buried  among  the  bed-clothes, 


496 


NEW  POEMS 


Long  and  bitterly  would  I  pray  and  wrestle 
Till  gentle  sleep 

Threw  her  great  mantle  over  me, 

And  my  hard  breathing  gradually  ceased. 

I  was  then  the  Indian, 

Well  and  happy  and  full  of  glee  and  pleasure. 
Both  hands  full  of  life. 

And  not  without  divine  impulses 
Shot  into  me  by  the  untried  non-ego; 

But,  like  the  Indian,  too. 

Not  yet  exempt  from  feverish  questionings 
And  on  my  bed  of  leaves, 

Writhing  terribly  in  grasp  of  terror, 

As  when  the  still  stars  and  the  great  white  moon 
Watch  me  athwart  black  foliage, 

Trembling  before  the  interminable  vista, 

The  widening  wells  of  space 

In  which  my  thought  flags  like  a  wearied  bird 

In  the  mid  ocean  of  his  autumn  flight — 

Prostrate  before  the  indefinite  great  spirit 

That  the  external  warder 

Plunged  like  a  dagger 

Into  my  bosom. 

Now,  I  am  a  Greek 

White-robed  among  the  sunshine  and  the  statues 
And  the  fair  porticos  of  carven  marble — 

Fond  of  olives  and  dry  sherry, 

Good  tobacco  and  clever  talk  with  my  fellows. 
Free  from  inordinate  cravings. 


NEW  POEMS 


497 


Why  would  you  hurry  me,  O  evangelist, 

You  with  the  bands  and  the  shilling  packet  of  tracts 
Greatly  reduced  when  taken  for  distribution  ? 

Why  do  you  taunt  my  progress, 

O  green-spectacled  Wordsworth!  in  beautiful  verses, 
You,  the  elderly  poet? 

So  I  shall  travel  forward 

Step  by  step  with  the  rest  of  my  race, 

In  time,  if  death  should  spare  me, 

I  shall  come  on  to  a  farther  stage, 

And  show  you  St.  Francis  of  Assisi. 


CCVII 

SONG  AT  DAWN 

I  SEE  the  dawn  creep  round  the  world, 

Here  damm’d  a  moment  backward  by  great  hills, 
There  racing  o’er  the  sea. 

Down  at  the  round  equator. 

It  leaps  forth  straight  and  rapid, 

Driving  with  firm  sharp  edge  the  night  before  it. 

Here  gradually  it  floods 

The  wooded  valleys  and  the  weeds 

And  the  still  smokeless  cities. 

The  cocks  crow  up  at  the  farms; 

The  sick  man’s  spirit  is  glad; 

The  watch  treads  brisker  about  the  dew- wet  deck; 
The  light-keeper  locks  his  desk, 

As  the  lenses  turn, 

Faded  and  yellow. 


498 


NEW  POEMS 


The  girl  with  the  embrcidered  shift 
Rises  and  leans  on  the  sill. 

And  her  full  bosom  heaves 
Drinking  deep  of  the  silentness. 

I  too  rise  and  watch 

The  healing  fingers  of  dawn — 

I  too  drink  from  its  eyes 
The  unaccountable  peace — 

I  too  drink  and  am  satisfied  as  with  food. 

Fain  would  I  go 

Down  by  the  winding  crossroad  by  the  trees. 
Where  at  the  corner  of  wet  wood, 

The  blackbird  in  the  early  grey  and  stillness 
Wakes  his  first  song. 

Peace  who  can  make  verses  clink, 

Find  ictus  following  surely  after  ictus 
At  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  heart 
Lies  steeped  and  silent. 

O  dreaming,  leaning  girl. 

Already  are  the  sovereign  hill-tops  ruddy. 
Already  the  grey  passes,  the  white-streak 
Brightens  above  dark  wood-lands,  Day  begins. 


CCVIII 


SOLE  scholar  of  your  college  I  appear,1 
Plenipotential  for  the  party  here 
Assembled,  elegant  to  present 
Their  salutations  and  my  compliment. 

1  Written  upon  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson’s  birthday,  to  be  recited  by 
Austin  Strong. 


NEW  POEMS 


499 


A  while  ago,  when  to  your  hands  I  came 
I  tripped  on  commas,  stumbled  at  a  name. 

Browsed,  like  the  sheep  of  some  ungenerous  breeder 
On  that  lean  pasture-land,  a  First  Reader. 

Since  when,  by  you  presented,  early  and  late, 

I  sit  and  feast  with  all  the  good  and  great. 

And  pass  the  flagon  round,  and  praise  my  lot. 

With  Burns  and  Byron,  Addison  and  Scott. 

Since  when,  a  practiced  knight,  fear  laid  aside. 
Through  verbal  Alps,  unfaltering  I  ride. 

With  polysyllables  prove  a  passed  practitioner, 

And  need  not  blush  before  a  Land  Commissioner. 

For  which  good  gifts,  they  choose  me  (choosing  right). 
To  grace  with  speech  the  ritual  of  the  night; 

Deliver  his  rough  verse  with  easy  mien 
And  make  my  bow  before  our  lady  Dean. 


CCIX 

DARK  WOMEN 

I  MUST  not  cease  from  singing 
And  leave  their  praise  unsung. 
The  praise  of  swarthy  women 
I  have  loved  since  I  was  young; 
That  shine  like  coloured  pictures 
In  the  pale  book  of  my  life; 

The  gem  of  meditation, 

The  dear  reward  of  strife. 


500 


NEW  POEMS 


To  you  let  snow  and  roses 
And  golden  locks  belong; 

These  are  the  world’s  enslavers. 

Let  them  delight  the  throng. 

But  for  her  of  duskier  lustre, 

Whose  favour  I  still  wear. 

The  snow  be  in  her  kirtle. 

The  rose  be  in  her  hair. 

The  hue  of  a  highland  river 
That’s  flowing,  full  and  cool. 
From  sable  on  to  golden, 

From  rapid  on  to  pool. 

The  hue  of  heather  honey. 

The  hue  of  honey  bees. 

Shall  tinge  her  golden  shoulder, 
Shall  gild  her  tawny  knees. 

There  shines  in  her  glowing  favour 
A  gem  of  darker  look. 

The  eye  of  coral  and  topaz. 

The  pool  of  the  mountain  brook. 
And  strands  of  brown  and  sunshine. 
And  threads  of  silver  and  snow 
In  her  dusky  treasure  of  tresses 
Twinkle  and  shine  and  glow. 

I  have  been  young  and  am  old 
And  trodden  various  ways. 

Now  I  behold  from  a  window 
The  wonder  of  bygone  days. 

The  mingling  of  many  colours. 


NEW  POEMS 


501 


The  crossing  of  many  threads, 
The  dear  and  smiling  faces, 

The  dark  and  graceful  heads. 

The  defeats  and  the  successes, 
The  strife,  the  race,  the  goal. 
And  the  touch  of  a  dusky  woman 
Was  fairly  worth  the  whole. 
And  sun  and  moon  and  morning, 
With  glory  I  recall. 

But  the  clasp  of  a  dusky  woman 
Outweighed  them  one  and  all. 


CCX 

A  VALENTINE 

WRITTEN  FOR  TEUILA 

I  THAT  was  silent  long,  at  last 
>  May  praise  with  a  good  grace — 
Your  morning  smile,  your  gallant  heart 
Your  honest  eyes  and  face. 

Go  on,  go  down  your  radiant  years. 
Fulfill  your  destined  part, 

But  then  as  now,  ah !  keep  for  me 
That  corner  of  your  heart. 

Loyal  and  kind  you  were  at  first 
And  will  be  to  the  end: 

Keep  ever,  what  your  youth  has  earned 
A  loyal  woman  friend ! 


502 


NEW  POEMS 


ccxi 

TO  A  MIDSHIPMAN1 

OFF  on  the  daring  Curagoa, 

When  on  a  journey, 

I  had  been  asked  about  the  hour  of  four 
By  Admiral  Burney; 

I  had  been  asked  by  him,  and  he 
Had  led  me,  right  unwilling  to  a  sea-collation, 
When  by  the  bits,  by  lantern  light,  there  waited 
A  bowl  of  chocolate;  and  we,  unsated, 

Fell  to  the  meal  with  gallant  emulation. 

And  not  unequally  mated 

Did  glorious  justice  to  that  chocolation. 

Soon  an  ungrateful  country  spurned  my  service, 
And  I,  though  bold  as  Admiral  Hurd, 

And  adamant  as  Admiral  Jervis, 

Was,  for  that  country’s  good. 

Without  the  least  emolument  or  justification. 
Returned  to  a  shore  station. 

Where  oft,  awaking  ere  the  day. 

Before  the  earliest  lightening  in  the  east. 
Murmuring,  I  lay, 

Mourning  that  absent  feast 
And  the  rich  dish, 

In  memory  dear  but  far  beyond  a  wish. 

1  Unfinished  fragment  written  in  answer  to  a  present  of  some  choco¬ 
late  from  the  officers  of  H.  M.  S.  Curagoa.  Vailima,  1894. 


NEW  POEMS 


503 


Then  Woodward  rose.  Woodward  beneficent. 

Stern  purser  he,  the  eloquent  diarist 
Of  that  unparalleled  voyage;  and  he  sent 
Up  through  the  arduous  forest,  by  the  mist 
And  constant  dash 

Of  sounding  waterfalls. 

And  that  chaotic  hash 

I  have  the  impudence  to  call  a  road, 

A  welcome  load, 

Being  two  sticks, 

Each  of  the  pleasing  hue  of  clay 
And  both  the  consistency  of  bricks. 

Sail  on,  my  Woodward !  Sail  for  aye 
To  acclamation ! 

Whether  in  your  ears  the  hostile  cannon  bang, 
Or,  on  some  more  pacific  station 
Respected,  there  adown  the  stage 
Of  speculation, 

Still  may  this  humble  testimonial  hang 
In  chateau  Woodward  for  an  age ! 

There  may  no  irritant  Soldier  circumvent 
In  angry  disputation, 

Nor  unexpected  Warren  hit  aslant 
With  an  interrogation — 

ccxn 

THE  faces  and  the  forms  of  yore. 
Again  recall,  again  recast; 

Let  your  fine  fingers1  raise  once  more 
The  curtains  of  the  quiet  past; 

1  A  postscript  to  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Richmond  Thackeray. 


504 


NEW  POEMS 


And  there,  beside  the  English  fires 
That  sung  and  sparkled  long  ago, 

The  sires  of  your  departed  sires, 

The  mothers  of  our  mothers  show. 

CCXIII 

THE  CONSECRATION  OF  BRAILLE 

TO  MRS.  A.  BAKER 

I  WAS  a  barren  tree  before, 

I  blew  a  quenched  coal, 

I  could  not,  on  their  midnight  shore, 

The  lonely  blind  console. 

A  moment,  lend  your  hand,  I  bring 
My  sheaf  for  you  to  bind. 

And  you  can  teach  my  words  to  sing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  blind. 

CCXIV 

BURLESQUE  SONNET 

TO  2ENEAS  WILLIAM  MACKINTOSH 

THEE,  Mackintosh,  artificer  of  light. 

Thee,  the  lone  smoker  hails !  the  student,  thee ; 
Thee,  oft  upon  the  ungovernable  sea, 

The  seaman,  conscious  of  approaching  night; 

Thou,  with  industrious  fingers,  hast  outright 
Mastered  that  art,  of  other  arts  the  key, 

That  bids  thick  night  before  the  morning  flee, 

And  lingering  day  retains  for  mortal  sight. 


NEW  POEMS 


505 


O  Promethean  workman,  thee  I  hail. 

Thee  hallowed,  thee  unparalleled,  thee  bold 
To  affront  the  reign  of  sleep  and  darkness  old, 
Thee  William,  thee  dSneas,  thee  I  sing; 

Thee  by  the  glimmering  taper  clear  and  pale, 

Of  light,  and  light’s  purveyance,  hail,  the  king. 


CCXV 

TO  TEUILA 
1 

I  HAVE  been  far,  I  have  been  near, 

I  have  been  young  and  old, 

But  one  of  your  eyes  is  brown,  my  dear, 
And  one  is  brown  and  gold. 

Your  pretty  points  you  still  renew 
And  alter  from  of  old. 

For  once  I  knew  it  brown  and  blue 
That  now  is  brown  and  gold. 

Ten  thousand  dames  and  twenty-two 
Compete  to  take  the  crown, 

They  cannot  put  their  purpose  through 
Against  the  gold  and  brown. 

Ten  thousand  dames  and  forty -four 
Unhappy  can’t  unfold; 

The  eye  was  brown  and  blue  before 
And  now  is  brown  and  gold. 


506 


NEW  POEMS 


Ten  thousand  dames  and  fifty-five 
Alas !  must  all  go  down. 

For  the  shyest,  kindest  glance  alive 
Shoots  from  the  gold  and  brown. 


2 

My  dear  and  fair,  my  kind  and  pretty. 

Why  come  and  sue  to  me  for  praise  ? 

Why  come  and  tease  me  for  a  ditty  ? 

Who  are,  yourself,  my  song  of  days? 

Yourself  the  goddess  bright  that  lingers 
Anear — and  sings  and  sanctifies. 

The  days  go  round  between  your  fingers. 

And  the  house  brightens  with  your  eyes ! 

Yourself  the  poem  and  the  poet, 

My  dear  and  fair,  my  bright  and  sweet, 

The  days  rhyme  (though  you  don’t  know  it) 
And  the  season’s  chime,  dear,  with  your  feet ! 

My  bright  light  (and  who  could  oppose  you?), 
My  inexhaustible  fount  of  smiles, 

You  are  the  tune  that  the  whole  world  goes  to 
And  the  brightness  of  the  passing  miles ! 

The  beauty  and  the  song  of  water. 

The  brightness  and  the  blue  of  air — 

I  can  be  happy,  my  friend  and  daughter. 

So  long  as  you  are  kind  and  fair. 


NEW  POEMS 


507 


CCXVI 

TO  KO  UNG 


Upon  the  departure  of  A.  S.  for  school.  Vailima,  September  15,  1892. 


A  LITTLE  fellow,  putting  forth  alone 

Upon  his  first  adventure,  begs  Ko  Ung 
To  guard  his  little  fortunes  and  bring  back 
Himself  at  last,  a  bigger  and  a  better  boy. 


CCXVII 


TO  KO  UNG,  THE  GODDESS 


MY  fortune  has  been  great,  I  grant. 

You  have  spoiled  me  like  a  maiden  aunt. 
You  gave,  I  own,  as  much  as  it  was  in  you, 

And  all  I  crave  you  now  is  to  continue. 

Bless,  bless  my  house  and  bless  my  books, 

Keep  all  my  people  in  good  health,  good  looks. 
And  temper,  too;  let  still  my  credit  mount 
And  keep  an  eye  upon  my  bank  account. 


CCXVIII 

IN  LUPUM 


BEYOND  the  gates  thou  gav’st  a  field  to  till; 

I  have  a  larger  on  my  window-sill. 

A  farm,  d’ye  say?  Is  this  a  farm  to  you. 

Where  for  all  woods  I  spy  one  tuft  of  rue. 

And  that  so  rusty,  and  so  small  a  thing, 

One  shrill  cicada  hides  it  with  a  wing; 


508 


NEW  POEMS 


Where  one  cucumber  covers  all  the  plain; 

And  where  one  serpent  rings  himself  in  vain 
To  enter  wholly;  and  a  single  snail 
Eats  all  and  exit  fasting  to  the  pool? 

Here  shall  my  gard’ner  be  the  dusty  mole. 

My  only  ploughman  the  .  .  .  mole. 

Here  shall  I  wait  in  vain  till  figs  be  set. 

And  till  the  spring  disclose  the  violet. 

Through  all  my  wilds  a  tameless  mouse  careers. 
And  in  that  narrow  boundary  appears. 

Huge  as  the  stalking  lion  of  Algiers, 

Huge  as  the  fabled  boar  of  Calydon. 

And  all  my  hay  is  at  one  swoop  impresst 
By  one  low-flying  swallow  for  her  nest. 

Strip  god  Priapus  of  each  attribute 
Here  finds  he  scarce  a  pedestal  to  foot. 

The  gathered  harvest  scarcely  brims  a  spoon; 

And  all  my  vintage  drips  in  a  cocoon. 

Generous  are  you,  but  I  more  generous  still: 

Take  back  your  farm  and  hand  me  half  a  gill ! 

CCXIX 

IN  CHARIDEMUM 

YOU,  Charidemus,  who  my  cradle  swung, 

And  watched  me  all  the  days  that  I  was  young; 
You,  at  whose  step  the  laziest  slaves  awake, 

And  both  the  bailiff  and  the  butler  quake; 

The  barber’s  suds  now  blacken  with  my  beard, 

And  my  rough  kisses  make  the  maids  afeared; 

And  with  reproach  your  awful  eyebrows  twitch, 


NEW  POEMS 


509 


And  for  the  cane,  I  see,  your  fingers  itch. 

If  something  daintily  attired  I  go, 

Straight  you  exclaim:  “Your  father  did  not  so.” 
And  fuming,  count  the  bottles  on  the  board 
As  though  my  cellar  were  your  private  hoard. 
Enough,  at  last:  I  have  done  all  I  can, 

And  your  own  mistress  hails  me  for  a  man. 


CCXX 


AD  NEPOTEM 


ONEP0S,  twice  my  neighbour  (since  at  home 

We’re  door  by  door,  by  Flora’s  temple  dome; 
And  in  the  country,  still  conjoined  by  fate. 

Behold  our  villas  standing  gate  by  gate), 

Thou  hast  a  daughter,  dearer  far  than  life — 

Thy  image  and  the  image  of  thy  wife. 

Thy  image  and  thy  wife’s,  and  be  it  so ! 

But  why  for  her,  O  Nepos,  leave  the  can 
And  lose  the  prime  of  thy  Falernian? 

Hoard  casks  of  money,  if  to  hoard  be  thine; 

But  let  thy  daughter  drink  a  younger  wine ! 

Let  her  go  rich  and  wise,  in  silk  and  fur; 

Lay  down  a  bin  that  shall  grow  old  with  her; 

But  thou,  meantime,  the  while  the  batch  is  sound 
With  pleased  companions  pass  the  bowl  around; 

Nor  let  the  childless  only  taste  delights. 

For  Fathers  also  may  enjoy  their  nights. 


510 


NEW  POEMS 


ccxxi 


EPITAPHIUM  EROTII 


HERE  lies  Erotion,  whom  at  six  years  old 

Fate  pilfered.  Stranger  (when  I  too  am  cold, 
Who  shall  succeed  me  in  my  rural  field), 

To  this  small  spirit  annual  honours  yield ! 

Bright  be  thy  hearth,  hale  be  thy  babes,  I  crave 
And  this,  in  thy  green  farm,  the  only  grave. 


CCXXII 

AD  QUINTILIANUM 

O  CHIEF  director  of  the  growing  race, 

Of  Rome  the  glory  and  of  Rome  the  grace, 
Me,  O  Quintilian,  may  you  not  forgive 
Before  from  labour  I  make  haste  to  live  ? 

Some  burn  to  gather  wealth,  lay  hands  on  rule, 
Or  with  white  statues  fill  the  atrium  full. 

The  talking  hearth,  the  rafters  sweet  with  smoke, 
Live  fountains  and  rough  grass,  my  line  invoke: 
A  sturdy  slave,  not  too  learned  wife. 

Nights  filled  with  slumber,  and  a  quiet  life. 


CCXXIII 

DE  HORTIS  JULII  MARTI ALIS 


MY  Martial  owns  a  garden,  famed  to  please. 
Beyond  the  glades  of  the  Hesperides; 
Along  Janiculum  lies  the  chosen  block 
Where  the  cool  grottos  trench  the  hanging  rock. 


NEW  POEMS 


511 


The  moderate  summit,  something  plain  and  bare, 
Tastes  overhead  of  a  serener  air; 

And  while  the  clouds  besiege  the  vales  below, 

Keeps  the  clear  heaven  and  doth  with  sunshine  glow. 
To  the  June  stars  that  circle  in  the  skies 
The  dainty  roofs  of  that  tall  villa  rise. 

Hence  do  the  seven  imperial  hills  appear; 

And  you  may  view  the  whole  of  Rome  from  here: 
Beyond,  the  Alban  and  the  Tuscan  hills; 

And  the  cool  groves  and  the  cool  falling  rills, 

Rubre  Fidense,  and  with  virgin  blood 
Anointed  once  Perenna’s  orchard  wood. 

Thence  the  Flaminian,  the  Salarian  way, 

Stretch  far  broad  below  the  dome  of  day; 

And  lo !  the  traveller  toiling  toward  his  home; 

And  all  unheard,  the  chariot  speeds  to  Rome ! 

For  here  no  whisper  of  the  wheels;  and  tho’ 

The  Mulvian  Bridge,  above  the  Tiber’s  flow, 

Hangs  all  in  sight,  and  down  the  sacred  stream 
The  sliding  barges  vanish  like  a  dream, 

The  seaman’s  shrilling  pipe  not  enters  here, 

Nor  the  rude  cries  of  porters  on  the  pier. 

And  if  so  rare  the  house,  how  rarer  far 
The  welcome  and  the  weal  that  therein  are ! 

So  free  from  access,  the  doors  so  widely  thrown. 

You  half  imagine  all  to  be  your  own. 


512 


NEW  POEMS 


CCXXIV 

IN  MAXIMUM 


WOULDST  thou  be  free  ?  I  think  it  not,  indeed ; 

But  if  thou  wouldst,  attend  this  simple  rede: 
When  quite  contented  thou  canst  dine  at  home 
And  drink  a  small  wine  of  the  march  of  Home; 

When  thou  canst  see  unmoved  thy  neighbour’s  plate, 
And  wear  thy  threadbare  toga  in  the  gate; 

When  thou  hast  learned  to  love  a  small  abode. 

And  not  to  choose  a  mistress  a  la  mode: 

When  thus  contained  and  bridled  thou  shalt  be. 

Then,  Maximus,  then  first  shalt  thou  be  free. 


CCXXV 

AD  OLUM 

CALL  me  not  rebel,  though  in  what  I  sing 
If  I  no  longer  hail  thee  Lord  and  King 
I  have  redeemed  myself  with  all  I  had. 

And  now  possess  my  fortunes  poor  but  glad. 
With  all  I  had  I  have  redeemed  myself, 

And  escaped  at  once  from  slavery  and  pelf. 
The  unruly  wishes  must  a  ruler  take, 

Our  high  desires  do  our  low  fortunes  make: 
Those  only  who  desire  palatial  things 
Do  bear  the  fetters  and  the  frowns  of  Kings; 
Set  free  thy  slave;  thou  settest  free  thyself. 


NEW  POEMS 


513 


CCXXVI 

DE  CCENATIONE  MICvE 

IOOK  round:  You  see  a  little  supper  room; 

But  from  my  window,  lo !  great  Caesar’s  tomb ! 
And  the  great  dead  themselves,  with  jovial  breath 
Bid  you  be  merry  and  remember  death. 


CCXXVII 

AD  PISCATOREM 

FOR  these  are  sacred  fishes  all 

Who  know  that  lord  who  is  lord  of  all; 

Come  to  the  brim  and  nose  the  friendly  hand 
That  sways  and  can  beshadow  all  the  land. 

Nor  only  so,  but  have  their  names,  and  come 
When  they  are  summoned  by  the  Lord  of  Rome. 
Here  once  his  line  an  impious  Lybian  threw; 

And  as  with  tremulous  reed  his  prey  he  drew, 
Straight,  the  light  failed  him. 

He  groped,  nor  found  the  prey  that  he  had  ta’en. 
Now  as  a  warning  to  the  fisher  clan 
Beside  the  lake  he  sits,  a  beggarman. 

Thou,  then,  while  still  thine  innocence  is  pure, 
FJee  swiftly,  nor  presume  to  set  thy  lure; 

Respect  these  fishes,  for  their  friends  are  great; 
And  in  the  waters  empty  all  thy  bait. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

A  birdie  with  a  yellow  bill . 26 

About  my  fields,  in  the  broad  sun . 453 

About  the  sheltered  garden  ground . 319 

About  us  lies  the  summer  night . 291 

A  child  should  always  say  what’s  true .  7 

Adela,  Adela,  Adela  Chart . 483 

Again  I  hear  you  piping,  for  I  know  the  tune  so  well  .  .  .  .401 

A  golden  service,  most  loveworthy  yoke . 444 

A  little  fellow,  putting  forth  alone . 507 

A  lover  of  the  moorland  bare . 75 

All  influences  were  in  vain . 305 

All  night  long,  and  every  night .  6 

All  night  through,  raves  or  broods . 373 

All  on  a  day  of  gold  and  blue . 474 

All  round  the  house  is  the  jet-black  night . 31 

All  the  names  I  know  from  nurse . 46 

All  things  on  earth  and  sea . 479 

A  mile  an’  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa . 115 

A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor . 71 

An  alley  ran  across  the  pleasant  wood . 301 

And  now  there  was  speech  in  the  south . 264 

And  thorns,  but  did  the  sculptor  spare . 485 

A  picture-frame  for  you  to  fill . 74 

As  Daniel,  bird-alone,  in  that  far  land . 449 

As  in  the  hostel  by  the  bridge,  I  sate . 448 

As  in  their  flight  the  birds  of  song . 399 

As  Love  and  Hope  together . 323 

As  one  who  having  wandered  all  night  long . 378 

As  starts  the  absent  dreamer  when  a  train . 447 

As  swallows  turning  backward . 305 

As  the  single  pang  of  the  blow,  when  the  metal  is  mingled  well  .  189 

As  the  steady  lenses  circle . 488 


517 


518  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

As  when  the  hunt  by  holt  and  field . 318 

At  evening  when  the  lamp  is  lit . 38 

At  morning  on  the  garden  seat . 387 

Away  with  funeral  music — set . 327 

Aye  mon,  it’s  true:  I’m  no’  that  weel . 416 

Before  this  little  gift  was  come . 417 

Behold,  as  goblins  dark  of  mien . 409 

Berried  brake  and  reedy  island . 156 

Beyond  the  gates  thou  gav’st  a  field  to  till . 507 

Birds  all  the  sunny  day . 45 

Blame  me  not  that  this  epistle . 480 

Blows  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain  are  flying  .  .  193 

Brave  lads  in  olden  musical  centuries . 476 

Bright  is  the  ring  of  words . 159 

Bring  the  comb  and  play  upon  it ! . 18 

By  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by  Thames  and  Tees . 142 

By  sunny  market-place  and  street . 312 

Call  it  to  mind,  O  my  love . 459 

Call  me  not  rebel,  though  in  what  I  sing . 512 

Chief  of  our  aunts — not  only  I . 54 

Children,  you  are  very  little . 21 

Clinkum-clank  in  the  rain  they  ride . 440 

Come  boat  me  o’er,  come  row  me  o’er . 314 

Come,  here  is  adieu  to  the  city . 436 

Come,  my  beloved,  hear  from  me . 413 

Come,  my  little  children,  here  are  songs  for  you . 419 

Come  up  here,  O  dusty  feet . 27 

Dark  brown  is  the  river . 13 

Dawn  as  yellow  as  sulphur  leaped  on  the  naked  peak  ....  244 

Dear  Andrew,  with  the  brindled  hair . 80 

Dear  Henley,  with  a  pig’s  snout  on . 477 

Dear  Lady  tapping  at  your  door . 298 

Dear  sir,  good-morrow !  Five  years  back . 359 

Dear  Thamson  class,  whaure’er  I  gang . .  .128 

Dear  Uncle  Jim,  this  garden  ground . 51 

Death,  to  the  dead  for  evermore . 359 

Down  by  a  shining  water  well . 34 

Do  you  remember — can  we  e’er  forget . 176 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  519 

PAGE 

Early  in  the  morning  I  hear  on  your  piano . 420 

Eh,  man  Henley,  you’re  a  Don . 373 

Even  in  the  bluest  noonday  of  July . 78 

Ever  perilous  and  precious  . 468 

Every  night  my  prayers  I  say . 16 

Fair  Isle  at  Sea — thy  lovely  name . 420 

Far  from  the  loud  sea  beaches . 72 

Far  have  you  come,  my  lady,  from  the  town . 371 

Far  over  seas  an  island  is . 428 

Far  ’yont  amang  the  years  to  be . 109 

Farewell,  and  when  forth . 391 

Farewell,  fair  day  and  fading  light . 165 

Faster  than  fairies,  faster  than  witches . 28 

Fear  not,  dear  friend,  but  freely  live  your  days . 352 

Figure  me  to  yourself,  I  pray . 402 

Fixed  is  the  doom:  and  to  the  last  of  years . 422 

Flower  god,  god  of  the  spring,  beautiful,  bountiful . 412 

For  love  of  lovely  words,  and  for  the  sake . 100 

For  the  long  night  you  lay  awake .  3 

For  these  are  sacred  fishes  all . 513 

Forth  from  her  hand  to  mine  she  goes . 171 

Frae  nirly,  nippin’,  Eas’lan’  breeze  .  .  . . Ill 

Friend,  in  my  mountain-side  demesne . 73 

From  breakfast  on  through  all  the  day . 14 

From  some  abiding  central  source  of  power . 351 

From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather . 273 

Gather  ye  roses  while  ye  may . 366 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love . 149 

God  gave  to  me  a  child  in  part . 434 

God,  if  this  were  enough . 165 

God  knows,  my  Martial,  if  we  two  could  be . 472 

Go,  little  book,  and  wish  to  all . 67 

Go,  little  book — the  ancient  phrase . 417 

Good  old  ale,  mild  or  pale . 386 

Great  is  the  sun,  and  wide  he  goes . 47 

Had  I  the  power  that  have  the  will . 330 

Hail !  Childish  slaves  of  social  rules . 346 

Hail,  guest,  and  enter  freely  !  All  you  see . 416 

Hard  by  the  ruined  kirk  above  the  sound . 445 


520  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Hark  !  away  in  the  woods — for  the  ears  of  love  are  sharp  .  .  .  239 

He  hears  with  gladdened  heart  the  thunder . 164 

Her  name  is  a  word  of  old  romance . 364 

Here  all  is  sunny,  and  when  the  truant  gull . 100 

Here,  from  the  forelands  of  the  tideless  sea . 391 

Here  he  comes,  big  with  statistics . 357 

Here  in  the  quiet  eve . 357 

Here  let  me  rest,  here  nurse  the  uneasy  qualm . 491 

Here  lies  Erotion,  whom  at  six  years  old . 510 

Here  you  rest  among  the  valleys,  maiden  known  to  but  a  few  .  484 

High  as  my  heart ! — the  quip  be  mine . 450 

Home  from  the  daisied  meadows,  where  you  linger  yet  .  .  .  .419 

Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I  wander  ....  161 

How  do  you  like  to  go  up  in  a  swing . 25 

I  am  a  hunchback,  yellow  faced . 464 

I  am  a  kind  of  farthing  dip . 98 

I  am  as  one  that  keeps  awake . 295 

I  am  like  one  that  for  long  days  had  sate . 355 

I  am  like  one  that  has  sat  alone . 309 

I  ask  good  things  that  I  detest . 400 

I  cry  out  war  to  those  -who  spend  their  utmost . 494 

I  do  not  fear  to  own  me  kin . 354 

I  dreamed  of  forest  alleys  fair . 294 

If  I  could  arise  and  travel  away . 385 

If  I  had  wings,  my  lady,  like  a  dove . 370 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less . 88 

If  two  may  read  aright . 53 

If  you  see  this  song,  my  dear . 332 

I  had  an  evil  day  when  I . 479 

I  have  a  friend:  I  have  a  story . 341 

I  have  a  hoard  of  treasure  in  my  breast . 446 

I  have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me  ....  15 

I  have  been  far,  I  have  been  near . 505 

I  have  been  well,  I  have  been  ill . 339 

I  have  left  all  upon  the  shameful  field . 313 

I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slope . 164 

I  heard  the  pulse  of  the  besieging  sea . 178 

I  knew  a  silver  head  was  bright  beyond  compare . 173 

I  knew  thee  strong  and  quiet  like  the  hills . 162 

I  know  not  how,  but  as  I  count . 320 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  you . 155 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  521 

PAGE 

I  look  across  the  ocean . 464 

I  love  to  be  warm  by  the  red  fireside . 421 

I  meanwhile  in  the  populous  house  apart . 457 

I  must  not  cease  from  singing . 499 

In  all  the  grove,  nor  stream  nor  bird . 184 

In  all  the  land  of  the  tribe  was  neither  fish  nor  fruit  ....  235 

In  ancient  tales,  O  friend,  thy  spirit  dwelt . 81 

In  Autumn  when  the  woods  are  red . 365 

In  dreams,  unhappy,  I  behold  you  stand . 151 

In  mony  a  foreign  pairt  I’ve  been . 133 

I,  now,  O  friend,  whom  noiselessly  the  snows . 431 

In  rigorous  hours,  when  down  the  iron  lane . 168 

In  Schnee  der  Alpen — so  it  runs . 406 

In  the  beloved  hour  that  ushers  day . 162 

In  the  green  and  gallant  Spring . 359 

In  the  highlands,  in  the  country  places . 160 

In  the  other  gardens . 49 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night .  5 

I  read,  dear  friend,  in  your  dear  face . 87 

I  saw  red  evening  through  the  rain . 368 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high . 19 

I  see  the  dawn  creep  round  the  world . 497 

I  send  to  you,  commissioners . 317 

I  should  like  to  rise  and  go . 10 

I  sit  and  wait  a  pair  of  oars . 79 

I  sit  up  here  at  midnight . 291 

Is  the  house  not  homely  yet . 465 

It  blows  a  snowing  gale  in  the  winter  of  the  year , . 436 

It  chanced  that  as  Rua  sat  in  the  valley  of  silent  falls  .  .  .  .251 

It  fell  in  the  days  of  old,  as  the  men  of  Taiarapu  tell  ....  199 

It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain . 93 

It  is  the  season  now  to  go . 70 

It  is  very  nice  to  think .  5 

It’s  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an’  youth . 145 

It’s  forth  across  the  roaring  foam,  and  on  towards  the  west  .  .  390 

It’s  rainin’.  Weet’s  the  gairden  sod . 123 

It’s  strange  that  God  should  fash  to  frame . 127 

I,  that  was  silent  long,  at  last . 501 

I  was  a  barren  tree  before . 504 

I  who  all  the  winter  through . 376 

I,  whom  Apollo  sometime  visited . 427 

I  who  was  young  so  long . 376 


522  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight . 156 

I  woke  before  the  morning,  I  was  happy  all  the  day  ....  17 

Know  you  the  river  near  to  Grez . 389 

Last  night  I  lingered  long  without . 295 

Last  night  we  had  a  thunderstorm  in  style . 369 

Last,  to  the  chamber  where  I  lie . 32 

Late  in  the  night  in  bed  I  lay . 137 

Late  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed . 28 

Late,  O  miller . 426 

Let  beauty  awake  in  the  morn  from  beautiful  dreams  ....  155 

Let  Love  go,  if  go  she  will . 353 

Let  now  your  soul  in  this  substantial  world . 190 

Let  us,  who  part  like  brothers,  part  like  bards . 180 

Light  as  my  heart  was  long  ago . 365 

Light  as  the  linnet  on  my  way  I  start . 435 

Light  foot  and  tight  foot . 465 

Link  your  arm  in  mine,  my  lad . 341 

Little  Indian,  Sioux  or  Crow . 22 

Lo  !  In  thine  eyes  I  read . 292 

Lo,  in  thy  green  enclosure  here . 415 

Lo,  now,  my  guest,  if  aught  amiss  were  said . 416 

Long  must  elapse  ere  you  behold  again . 173 

Long  time  I  lay  in  little  ease . 411 

Look  round:  You  see  a  little  supper  room . 513 

Loud  and  low  in  the  chimney . 420 

Love  is  the  very  heart  of  spring . 375 

Love — what  is  love  ?  A  great  and  aching  heart . 377 

Man,  child  or  woman,  none  from  her . 451 

Man  sails  the  deep  a  while . 381 

Men  are  Heaven’s  piers,  they  evermore . 423 

Men  marvel  at  the  works  of  man . 466 

Mine  eyes  were  swift  to  know  thee,  and  my  heart . 422 

Mother  and  sire,  to  you  do  I  commend . 415 

Motley  I  count  the  only  wear . .  .  344 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat . 24 

My  body  which  my  dungeon  is . 101 

My  bonny  man,  the  world,  it’s  true . 124 

My  brain  swims  empty  and  light . 485 

My  dear  and  fair,  my  kind  and  pretty . 506 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  523 

PAGE 

My  first  gift  and  my  last,  to  you . 311 

My  fortune  has  been  great,  I  grant . .  507 

My  heart,  when  first  the  blackbird  sings . 293 

My  house,  I  say.  But  hark  to  the  sunny  doves . 101 

My  love  was  warm:  for  that  I  crossed . 419 

My  Martial  owns  a  garden,  famed  to  please . 510 

My  tea  is  nearly  ready  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky  ....  23 

My  wife  and  I,  in  one  romantic  cot . 387 

Nay,  but  I  fancy  somehow,  year  by  year . 386 

Noo  lyart  leaves  blaw  ower  the  green . 470 

Nor  judge  me  light,  tho’  light  at  times  I  seem . 445 

Not  roses  to  the  rose,  I  trow . 473 

Not  thine  where  marble-still  and  white . 328 

Not  undelightful,  friend,  our  rustic  ease . 448 

Not  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert . 91 

Now,  Antonius,  in  a  smiling  age . 473 

Now  bare  to  the  beholder’s  eye . 439 

Now  that  you  have  spelt  your  lesson . 57 

Now  when  the  number  of  my  years . 383 

Now,  with  my  little  gun,  I  crawl . 39 

O  chief  director  of  the  growing  race . 510 

O,  dull,  cold,  northern  sky . 331 

O,  Henley,  in  my  hours  of  ease . 478 

O,  it’s  I  that  am  the  captain  of  a  tidy  little  ship . 34 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  says  I — . 122 

O  lady  fair  and  sweet . 369 

O  mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow . 94 

O  Nepos,  twice  my  neighbour  (since  at  home . 509 

O  now,  although  the  year  be  done . 358 

Of  a’  the  ills  that  flesh  can  fear . 140 

Of  Schooners,  Islands,  and  Maroons . 405 

Of  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings . 11 

Of  the  many  flowers  you  brought  me . 474 

Of  where  or  how,  I  nothing  know . 384 

Off  on  the  daring  Curagoa . 502 

On  the  loch-sides  of  Appin . 259 

On  the  gorgeous  hills  of  morning . 429 

On  the  great  streams  the  ships  may  go . 68 

Once  more  I  saw  him.  In  the  lofty  room . 191 

Once  more  upon  the  same  old  seat . 296 


52 4  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Once  only  by  the  garden  gate . .  150 

Our  Johnie’s  deid.  The  mair’s  the  pity . 360 

Out  of  the  sun,  out  of  the  blast . 89 

Over  the  borders,  a  sin  without  pardon . 20 

Over  the  land  is  April . 435 

Peace  and  her  huge  invasion  to  these  shores . 96 

Plain  as  the  glistering  planets  shine . 153 

Rahero  was  there  in  the  hall  asleep;  beside  him  his  wife  .  .  .  222 

Resign  the  rhapsody,  the  dream . 175 

Rivers  and  winds  among  the  twisted  hills . 429 

Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined . 102 

See,  with  strong  heart,  O  youth,  the  change . 336 

She  rested  by  the  Broken  Brook . 152 

Since  I  am  sworn  to  live  my  life . 372 

Since  long  ago,  a  child  at  home . 169 

Since  Thou  hast  given  me  this  good  hope,  O  God . 433 

Since  years  ago  for  evermore . .  .  .414 

Sing  clearlier,  muse,  or  evermore  be  still . 99 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone . 192 

Sit  doon  by  me,  my  canty  f reend . .356 

Small  is  the  trust  when  love  is  green . 388 

Smooth  it  slides  upon  its  travel . 26 

So  live,  so  love,  so  use  that  fragile  hour . 417 

So  shall  this  book  wax  like  unto  a  well . 446 

Sole  scholar  of  your  college,  I  appear . 498 

Some  day  soon  this  rhyming  volume . 57 

Son  of  my  woman’s  body,  you  go,  to  the  drum  and  fife  .  .  .  158 

Soon  our  friends  perish . 377 

Still  I  love  to  rhyme,  and  still  more,  rhyming,  to  wander  .  .  .  410 

Stout  marches  lead  to  certain  ends . 327 

Strange  are  the  ways  of  men . 379 

Summer  fading,  winter  comes — . 36 

Swallows  travel  to  and  fro . .  348 

Take  not  my  hand  as  mine  alone . 320 

Tall  as  a  guardsman,  pale  as  the  east  at  dawn . 454 

Tempest  tossed  and  sore  afflicted,  sin  defiled  and  care  oppressed  .  430 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  525 

PAGE 

The  Adorner  of  the  uncomely — Those . 455 

The  air  was  full  of  sun  and  birds . 321 

The  angler  rose,  he  took  his  rod . 321 

The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit . 99 

The  brilliant  kernel  of  the  night . r  .  486 

The  broad  sun . 427 

The  clinkum-clank  o’  Sabbath  bells . 116 

The  coach  is  at  the  door  at  last . 30 

The  cock  shall  crow . 158 

The  cock’s  clear  voice  into  the  clearer  air . 382 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red . 193 

The  faces  and  the  forms  of  yore . 503 

The  friendly  cow,  all  red  and  white . 19 

The  gardener  does  not  love  to  talk . 50 

The  gauger  walked  with  willing  feet . 67 

The  indefensible  impulse  of  my  blood . 468 

The  infinite  shining  heavens . 153 

The  jolly  English  Yellowboy . 392 

The  lamps  now  glitter  down  the  street . 39 

The  lights  from  the  parlour  and  kitchen  shone  out . 17 

The  look  of  Death  is  both  severe  and  mild . 363 

The  Lord  HimseF  in  former  days . 131 

The  moon  has  a  face  like  the  clock  in  the  hall  ......  25 

The  moon  is  sinking — the  tempestuous  weather . 324 

The  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear . 164 

The  narrow  lanes  are  vacant  and  wet . 492 

The  old  chimseras,  old  receipts . 310 

The  old  lady  (so  they  say)  but  I . 456 

The  old  world  moans  and  topes . 308 

The  pleasant  river  gushes . 475 

The  rain  is  over  and  done . 374 

The  rain  is  raining  all  around .  7 

The  red  room  with  the  giant  bed . 54 

The  relic  taken,  what  avails  the  shrine  ? . 318 

The  roadside  lined  with  ragweed,  the  sharp  hills . 444 

The  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked  hand  .  .  279 

The  Silver  Ship,  my  King — that  was  her  name . 171 

The  stormy  evening  closes  now  in  vain . 168 

The  strong  man’s  hand,  the  snow-cool  head  of  age . 449 

The  summer  sun  shone  round  me . 322 

The  sun  is  not  a-bed  when  I . 23 

The  tropics  vanish,  and  meseems  that  I . 177 


526  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

The  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and  tears . 76 

The  whole  day  through,  in  contempt  and  pity . 309 

The  wind  blew  shrill  and  smart . 380 

The  wind  is  without  there  and  howls  in  the  trees . 343 

The  wind  may  blaw  the  lee-lang  way . 349 

The  withered  rushes  made  a  flame . 300 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things . 19 

The  year  runs  through  her  phases;  rain  and  sun . 84 

Thee,  Mackintosh,  artificer  of  light . 504 

There  fell  a  war  in  a  woody  place . 267 

There’s  just  a  twinkle  in  your  eye . 437 

There  where  the  land  of  love . 374 

These  nuts,  that  I  keep  in  the  back  of  the  nest . 37 

These  are  your  hills,  John  Cavalier . 338 

These  rings,  O  my  beloved  pair . 458 

They  say  that  at  the  core  of  it . 395 

They  tell  me,  lady,  that  to-day . 397 

This  girl  was  sweeter  than  the  song  of  swans . 463 

This  gloomy,  northern  sky . 335 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  man . 259 

Tho’  day  by  day  old  hopes  depart . 340 

Through  all  the  pleasant  meadow-side . 29 

Though  deep  indifference  should  drowse . 293 

Though  he  that  ever  kind  and  true . 296 

Three  of  us  afloat  in  the  meadow  by  the  swing .  7 

Three  yellow  slaves  were  set  to  swing . 489 

Thou  strainest  through  the  mountain  fern . 321 

Through  all  the  pleasant  meadow-side . 29 

Thus  was  Rahero’s  treason;  thus  and  no  further  it  sped  .  .  .  209 

Thy  God  permits  thee,  but  with  dreadful  hand . 443 

To  all  that  love  the  far  and  blue . 438 

To  friends  at  home,  the  lone,  the  admired,  the  lost . 427 

To  her,  for  I  must  still  regard  her . 103 

To  see  the  infinite  pity  of  this  place . 172 

To  the  heart  of  youth  the  world  is  a  high  way  side . 151 

To  what  shall  I  compare  her . 425 

To  you,  let  snow  and  roses . .154 

Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true . 167 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky . 88 

Up  into  the  cherry-tree .  8 

Up  with  the  sun,  the  breeze  arose . 396 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  527 

PAGE 

We  are  as  maidens  one  and  all . 324 

We  built  a  ship  upon  the  stairs . 12 

We’ll  walk  the  woods  no  more . 372 

We  see  you  as  we  see  a  face . 87 

We  travelled  in  the  print  of  the  olden  wars . 99 

We  uncommiserate  pass  into  the  night . 191 

What  are  you  able  to  build  with  your  blocks . 37 

What  glory  for  a  boy  of  ten . 455 

W7hat  is  the  face,  the  fairest  face,  till  Care . 351 

What  man  may  learn,  what  man  may  do . 384 

When  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come . 114 

When  at  home  alone  I  sit . 40 

When  children  are  playing  alone  on  the  green . 33 

When  chitterin’  cauld  the  day  sail  daw . 313 

W7hen  I  am  grown  to  man’s  estate . 12 

When  I  was  down  beside  the  sea .  6 

When  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed . 14 

When  loud  by  landside  streamlets  gush . 424 

When  my  young  lady  has  grown  great  and  staid . 398 

When  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in . 31 

When  the  golden  day  is  done . 43 

When  the  grass  was  closely  mown . 48 

When  the  sun  comes  after  rain . 426 

When  Thomas  set  this  tablet  here . 414 

Whenever  Auntie  moves  around . 13 

Whenever  the  moon  and  stars  are  set .  9 

When,  where,  or  how . 393 

Where  the  bells  peal  far  at  sea . 86 

Whether  upon  the  garden  seat  .  . 58 

Whether  we  like  it,  or  don’t . 366 

Willie  an’  I  cam  doun  by  Blair . 314 

With  caws  and  chirrupings,  the  woods . 326 

With  half  a  heart  I  wander  here . 97 

Who  comes  to-night  ?  We  ope  the  doors  in  vain . 85 

Who  would  think,  herein  to  look . 469 

Wouldst  thou  be  free?  I  think  it  not,  indeed . 512 

Yes,  friend,  I  own  these  tales  of  Arabia  ........  408 

Yes,  I  remember,  and  still  remember  wailing . 407 

Yet,  O  stricken  heart,  remember,  O  remember . 95 

You,  Charidemus,  who  my  cradle  swung . 508 

You  have  been  far,  and  I — . 333 


528  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

You  know  the  way  to  Arcady . 298 

You  looked  so  tempting  in  the  pew . 323 

You  remember,  I  suppose . 334 

You,  that  are  much  a  fisher  in  the  pool . 467 

You,  too,  my  mother,  read  my  rhymes . 54 

Youth  now  flees  on  feathered  foot . 77 


DATE  DUE 

““3 

** 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

